Down the Holmesian Rabbit Hole
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Sherlock suffers a head injury before he can tell anyone the solution of a case involving a bomb. With time running out, Mycroft refers them to a scientist in America to help get the answers from Sherlock's comatose head. Sherlock-Post third season. Fringe-Early second season.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"How many times, Sherlock?" Dr. John Watson shouted as they filed out of the bank's front door. "Keep your bloody opinions to yourself!"

"Since when do I care what other people think?" Sherlock Holmes bit back as he leisurely followed John down the sidewalk. "If she didn't want people to know, she shouldn't have been flaunting it about."

"The only person who would think she was 'flaunting' it is you!" exclaimed John as they walked next to each other towards Baker Street. "No one else would notice those things. Couldn't you keep it to yourself, or at least wait until it's just you and me?"

"Why?" asked Sherlock. "I don't care what people think of me."

"I **know** you don't care what people think of you," muttered John as he rubbed irritatingly at his brow. "You never do. But you're going to end up putting people off of calling you for cases."

"We still caught the forger for them," Sherlock brushed off. "What do they have to complain about?"

John shook his head as he sighed. "Why do I even bother?"

"I've been wondering that same thing for years," muttered Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes even as he huffed out a fond chuckle, turning his thoughts towards what the title for this case would be.

They had just wrapped up a case involving a bank employee forging checks ("This is ridiculous, John! Barely even a two!"). Thanks to Sherlock having put Moriarty's fake return to rest, the two of them were more popular than ever, even John. People were calling, emailing and stopping by Baker Street for cases left and right. It was getting to the point where John had the opportunity to temporarily quit his practice so he could be with Mary and their new daughter Rachel more often. Of course, he didn't plan on quitting indefinitely; there was a reason why he had worked so hard to become a doctor. But with Sherlock's multitude of cases bringing in plenty of income for the both of them, he had decided to take a paternity leave, of sorts.

Not to mention, they were getting called a lot more often by Scotland Yard and Sherlock's brother Mycroft. In gratitude for ridding England of the threat of Moriarty (even if it hadn't technically been him), the British government had gifted Sherlock with a special license employing him as a consulting detective in Her Majesty's service, thus allowing him to remain in the country.

A lot of the time, Sherlock went on cases by himself so John could be with his family. However, John did try to tag along on as many as he could, often at Mary's insistence. And surprisingly, he found that Sherlock was making sure these days that they did, indeed, get paid. John suspected that it was so he could work with Sherlock instead of at his medical practice, but John felt grateful all the same.

"Chinese?" asked Sherlock.

John cleared his head with a shake as he looked over at Sherlock. "Sure."

"Good," said Sherlock, stepping away from him.

John stopped and glanced over to see that they had come to a stop in front of a Chinese restaurant, and Sherlock was holding the door open. John shook his head and chuckled before heading inside. It was rare that Sherlock would join him for a meal, not without pulling John away from his half-finished meal. John was going to enjoy it while he could.

Turns out, he didn't get to enjoy it for very long.

Sherlock placed his fork down onto his half-finished plate as he pulled out his ringing phone. He swiped a thumb across the screen and raised it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."

John began shoveling in a few more bites in an attempt to finish his meal before Sherlock jumped out of his chair.

"Where?" asked Sherlock as he reached behind himself for his coat and scarf on the back of his chair. "Be there in ten minutes." He hung up as he stood and headed for the door, throwing his coat on as he went.

John managed one last mouthful as he threw some money down on the table before jumping up and hurrying after Sherlock, pulling his own coat on. Sherlock strode over to the roadway as he flipped his collar up, raising his arm.

"Taxi!" Sherlock called, tying his scarf around his neck.

He and John climbed into the cab when it pulled up.

"351 Church Street," Sherlock announced to the cab, and they were off.

"So?" asked John as he typed a text to Mary about the new case.

"Dead body," Sherlock explained. "Man found in an abandoned block of flats. No sign of struggle or injuries. According to forensics, he just dropped dead, possibly poisoned."

"So…just wait for the autopsy results," commented John. "Why do they need you?"

"The victim was found with a tape recorder in his hand," said Sherlock.

"And?" asked John.

"And my name was on it," said Sherlock.

"Seriously?" asked John.

"Apparently," said Sherlock.

Within ten minutes, they were pulling up to the police tap and getting out of the cab, John once again tossing money to the driver. They were escorted inside, where Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood waiting for them.

"The tape?" Sherlock asked instantly as he put some gloves on.

Greg held it out in his own glove-covered hand as John helped himself to some gloves as well. Sherlock gingerly grabbed hold of the recorder, turning it over in his hands as his eyes darted all over it. He then rewound the tape and pressed play.

There were muffled thumps and clicks and other noises that sounded like the recorder was being man-handled. There were a couple coughs and some ragged breathing before a gruff voice began speaking.

"Call…S-Sherlock…" a man's voice forced out before a loud clang echoed from the speaker. There was a weak groan, and then there was silence.

Sherlock stopped the tape and handed it back. "So, poisoned."

Greg led them down the hallway towards the last flat. "Yeah. Obviously murder, but we can't find any sign of the killer. If I didn't know any better, I'd say suicide, except—"

"Except a suicide wouldn't ask for a detective," finished Sherlock as they stepped into the room.

Greg stepped aside as Sherlock's eyes darted this way and that, taking in the whole room, before focusing on the dead man lying in the middle of the floor. He was lying on his side, one hand stretched out in front of him.

Sherlock stepped up to the body, crouching down and starting his observations. He examined the head and throat, narrowing his eyes as he pulled the man's collar away from his neck. "You weren't wrong about murder."

John and Greg leaned closer to see a small red spot just over his carotid artery, as though he was stabbed with a needle.

"John…" said Sherlock, continuing to look for clues.

John stepped over to the other side of the body, kneeling down to examine him. He peered closely at the man's face, examining his eyes. He then moved on to his hands and chest, frowning at the pinkish tinge to the man's skin. "Been dead about twelve hours. It was a very fast-acting poison, but one which didn't leave many visible signs behind, such as—"

Sherlock suddenly leaned over the victim's face and inhaled long and loud at the victim's mouth.

"—as vomiting or rashes and burns," continued John after staring at Sherlock for a moment. "There are only a rare few poisons that are instant killers and undetectable, like—"

"Cyanide," Sherlock interrupted.

John nodded as he frowned. "For example."

"Cyanide can oftentimes leave the smell of bitter almonds on the breath, though it is usually difficult to detect," Sherlock explained. "Accompanied with the unusually pink tinge of the skin—"

"Because cyanide prevents the oxygen in the blood from getting to the body's cells," finished John.

"Exactly," said Sherlock, moving on to examine the man's left hand. "Someone didn't want us to find out how he was killed right away. They were hoping for the time it took to perform an autopsy. So, who were you?" He switched over to the man's right hand. "What would you be needed to bide time for?"

"You think maybe he was working with someone?" asked John.

"Most definitely…" said Sherlock, his voice trailing off as he stared at the man's hand. "At least three of them."

"Three?" asked Greg.

"Obviously…" muttered Sherlock as he set the man's hand down and dug in his coat, pulling out a penknife. He picked the man's hand up again and scraped at the underside of his fingernails. He then stared at the little white flecks that were now stuck to the tip of the knife as he set the hand down again.

"What's that?" asked John.

Sherlock pulled his magnifying glass out, popping it open and gazing down at the white flecks. After a moment, he came up with the answer. "Paint."

Sherlock's head suddenly shot up as his eyes widened slightly in thought. He quickly glanced over to his left at a perfectly plain piece of white wall. Pocketing the knife, he stood and dashed over to the wall, moving the magnifier along the wall and up and down it.

John stood as they watched the detective examine the wall. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him as he came to a stop, staring through his magnifier for a moment before pocketing it. He knelt and ran his hand along the floor where it met the wall. He stood once more and began knocking on the wall in various places.

John glanced back at Greg, who shot his eyebrows up in question. John shrugged before looking back at Sherlock, who had stopped and was knocking on one specific spot. He gave a smirk and reached over to a seemingly normal stretch of the wall, flipping a hidden latch. A hidden panel in the wall sprang open, and Sherlock pulled it open, glancing back at them.

"This should give us some answers," said Sherlock, turning and heading through the doorway.

Greg followed after him with John right behind him. The three of them headed down a narrow staircase hidden behind the wall before emerging in a basement. Greg was able to locate a light switch in the dim light and flipped it on.

John's jaw dropped along with Greg's as they took in what was in front of them. "Holy…"

Maps, front pages of newspapers and pictures were displayed on all the walls. Notes were written all over everything. A set of blueprints was spread over the table in the center of the room. And the blueprints detailed what obviously was a bomb.

"Well, Inspector…" muttered Sherlock, "I believe this homicide has just been upgraded to a terrorist plot."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Officers of New Scotland Yard swarmed the recently discovered basement, taking pictures of everything and sifting through all the papers and boxes.

"Found anything?" Greg called out.

Sergeant Sally Donovan stepped over to him. "Nothing. We can't find anything that tells us if they were planning this or if they already have it set to blow."

"Can't we?" said Sherlock as he appeared at their sides with a worn cardboard box.

"How did you find that?" Donovan demanded.

"By looking," said Sherlock, setting the box down on a nearby surface and flipping open the lid.

John and Greg shared a smile as Donovan shook her head and stormed back to the search for more evidence. Sherlock, meanwhile, was digging through the box, pulling out tape after tape.

"We'll find all the evidence we need on these," said Sherlock.

Greg grabbed the attention of a nearby officer. "Bring the tape recorder."

"Why would they keep all of the evidence down here?" asked John. "You would think a terrorist group would be more cautious."

"Why indeed," muttered Sherlock with a smirk.

"What is it?" asked Greg, eager for whatever Sherlock had.

"He was getting ready to turn them in," Sherlock told them.

"You think?" asked John.

"I don't think, I know," said Sherlock quickly. "Someone planning to set off a bomb would be a hardened criminal, most likely seasoned as well. It's very doubtful an experienced criminal would leave evidence lying around, let alone **record** it for anyone to find and listen to. His fingernails were badly chewed, yet the tips of his fingers were red, showing that he had only recently taken up the nervous habit. Now, what would he need to be nervous about? Nervous that his co-conspirators were going to turn on him? And why would they? Because they had begun to suspect he was a traitor."

"That's why he asked for you," nodded John, catching on.

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

The officer returned with the recorder, which Sherlock accepted and emptied of the previous tape. He picked up one of the tapes from the box, inserting it into the recorder and pressing play.

"_And you've plotted out the location?"_

"_Yes. We won't have trouble getting in."_

"_Good. Does he have the timers ready?"_

"What is it?" asked John.

Sherlock had slowly lowered the recorder and was staring at the wall ahead of him with wide eyes and slack jaw. "Michael Jacobs…"

"Who's that?" asked Greg as Sherlock stopped the tape.

"One of the more sinister criminals I've ever encountered," Sherlock explained. "Had a particular proclivity for murdering young pregnant women. It was a case I worked on seven years ago. He was arrested and sent to Pentonville."

"So, he escaped?" asked John.

"He couldn't have," said Sherlock, looking over at them with a smirk. "He was killed in a prison skirmish six months after his incarceration."

"And you're sure it's him?" asked John.

"I'd recognize his voice anywhere," said Sherlock. He placed the recorder into the box of tapes and flipped the lid shut. "I'll be at Baker Street."

"No, wait, Sherlock!" exclaimed Greg as he detective hefted the box into his arms. "You can't just—"

"I'll be able to solve it much faster on my own," Sherlock rattled off. "You know I will."

Greg hesitated before rolling his eyes and waving him off. "Oh, go on."

Sherlock strode past him, John hot on his heels, and headed up the stairs to the now-empty room. The two of them hurried out to the street before trying to hail a cab.

"You need any help?" asked John.

"I'll be fine for now," Sherlock told him quickly as a cab pulled up. "Go home."

"Thanks," said John, turning to head down the street towards his home.

* * *

John gently laid Rachel down in her crib, pulling the small blanket up onto her torso. He stood smiling down at her as she slept.

Sometimes, he couldn't believe how lucky he was. And to think that he had almost lost this. True, he was still upset with Mary for her duplicity, but he was _upset_, not mad. Ever since, Mary had done her best to be honest with him every day. And John appreciated it so very much.

John turned and quietly left the nursery, easing the door shut. He moved down the hall to the sitting room, where Mary was lounging on the sofa.

"Is she finally asleep?" Mary groaned.

John chuckled. "Yeah, she's out." He walked over to the sofa and sat next to her.

"How were the cases today?" asked Mary, curling up into his side.

John wrapped his arm around her. "Not bad. First one was boring, apparently. And now, Sherlock's after a terrorist cell."

"Terrorist cell?" asked Mary, looking up at him.

"Yeah, they're planning a bomb, or they've planted it, or something," John told her. "Sherlock's figuring it out now."

John's mobile phone began ringing on the coffee table, and Mary leaned forward to grab it, handing it over to her husband.

John glanced down at the screen. "Oh, speaking of…" He answered the phone and brought it to his ear. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's not causing trouble, is he?"

"Actually, he's not in," Mrs. Hudson told him. "He's not with you, is he?"

"No, no, I'm at home," John told her with a frown. "Have you tried his phone?"

"He's not answering," said Mrs. Hudson worriedly. "John, I just got back from dinner, and…" She took a shaky breath. "Oh, God…"

John's heart began beating faster. "Mrs. Hudson, what happened?"

"Someone broke into Baker Street," Mrs. Hudson said shakily. "They completely ruined the flat."

"Oh, my God," muttered John. "I'll be right over. Call the police." He quickly hung up and hurried towards his coat.

"What happened?" asked Mary.

"Baker Street's been broken into, and Sherlock's missing," John told her, pulling on his coat.

"Oh, my God…" gasped Mary.

"I need to call Mycroft," said John hurriedly as he headed for the door.

Mary followed him to the door. "Call me when you find him."

And didn't John just love that about Mary: her faith in him. There was no _if_ he finds him; there was only _when_.

John rushed out the door and hailed a cab, jumping inside when one pulled up. "221B Baker Street."

As the cab pulled into the street, John dialed Mycroft's number on his phone.

"Yes, John, I am aware of what has happened," Mycroft instantly answered. "My people are searching for my brother as we speak."

"All right," John replied. "I'll be at Baker Street with Lestrade."

"I'll be in touch," said Mycroft shortly before hanging up.

John spent the fifteen minute cab ride trying Sherlock's mobile himself. Just as the cab stopped in front of the flat, John's phone rang, and he answered it in a rush without even looking at it.

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed.

"The GPS on Sherlock's phone shows that he is still in Baker Street, though I suspect this is not the case," Mycroft told him. "We are still looking." And with that, he hung up.

John's grip around his phone tightened as he glanced up at the first floor windows. He rushed through the front door and up the stairs, ignoring the startled Mrs. Hudson and police officers gathered at the door of the flat. He barreled through the door, coming to a stop just inside.

"Jesus…" breathed John.

The flat was in complete disarray. Books from the shelves were thrown across the sitting room. The armchairs were overturned, and the sofa cushions were all askew. The pictures on the walls had been knocked crooked, and in one case even having fallen to the floor. Sherlock's laptop lay cracked and broken on the floor by the table, as though thrown aside in the search for something.

As John's eyes moved across the floor, he spotted the violin in front of the fireplace, the neck snapped in two and the body splintered.

_Oh, not the violin…_ John thought as he stared at the destroyed instrument. _Sherlock's gonna be brassed off about that._

John finally noticed Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. Greg had been staring at him, but he now spoke quickly to the officers next to him and then stepped over to John.

"Do you have any idea where Sherlock might be?" asked Greg.

John shook his head. "Mycroft's on it. But he said Sherlock's phone is still here." He held his mobile up, which was still in his hand, and dialed.

He lowered his hand, and they waited to hear the other phone ring, but there was nothing.

"Hang on," said John, stepping through the kitchen (equally vandalized) and down the hallway as he tried again.

This time, he could hear the faint ringing of a phone. He immediately followed the noise into Sherlock's room, his eyes falling on the busted-open wardrobe.

"Oh, no…" John dropped his phone into his pocket as he hurried to kneel in front of the wardrobe. He picked up Sherlock's phone that lay on the floor in front of it. "Please no…"

"What?" asked Greg from behind him.

John reached into the wardrobe and pushed aside the crumpled clothes that lay on its bottom. "Oh, great…"

Greg squatted down beside John and peered into the wardrobe to see that, apparently, it had a false bottom. And that false bottom had been broken open. "What is it?"

"That's Sherlock's secret stash," John told him. "And I don't mean drugs. He keeps everything of importance in there: sensitive documents, important evidence from the cases he's working on. If there was anywhere that he would have kept that box of tapes for safe-keeping, this would have been it."

Greg looked closer to see that there was an empty space big enough for the box. "Which means this Jacobs character broke in here. But the door wasn't forced. Mrs. Hudson had to use her keys to get in, so the burglars locked it behind them. Which means…"

"They have Sherlock's keys," said John as he came to the same conclusion.

The people Sherlock had been after had broken into his flat for the evidence against them. They had done so by getting hold of Sherlock's keys, and now, Sherlock was missing.

_My God, what did they do to him? _John wondered.

John's phone alerted him to a text, and he pulled it out to see a message from Mycroft.

**2254 Camden Road.**

"Mycroft's got a location," John quickly told Greg, hurrying back towards the staircase with the Detective Inspector.

John got into Greg's police car, and Greg sped towards the address Mycroft had given them. Upon arriving, they both jumped out and began a frantic search of the streets around the location.

As John was walking past an alley, he spotted a pair of legs sticking out from a corner down it. "Greg!"

John hurried down the alley and rounded the corner. Sherlock lay sprawled on the pavement, unconscious.

John fell onto his knees next to his friend, placing a hand on his face. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

There was no response, and John quickly examined Sherlock's head to discover blood matted in his hair just over his left ear.

"Oh, God…" breathed John, slipping right into doctor mode. He placed the first two fingers of his right hand to Sherlock's carotid artery, relieved to feel a pulse. He then leaned down with his ear to Sherlock's mouth, relieved once again at the sound of shallow inhales and exhales. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

There was still no response, so John moved onto the next test. He pressed the heel of his palm into Sherlock's sternum, rubbing it somewhat harshly. He then squeezed tightly on Sherlock's fingers, but Sherlock remained unconscious and still.

_No response to painful stimuli._

This was not going well. So far, Sherlock's Glasgow Coma Scale rating was a three, which meant deep coma.

_ABCs, John. Airway, breathing, circulation._

"Greg, call an ambulance!" John called over his shoulder as he carefully maneuvered Sherlock further onto his right side.

He moved Sherlock's left leg to lie over his right, stretching his right arm out straight and placing his left arm over it. He then carefully tilted Sherlock's head back to keep his epiglottis open and turned his head slightly towards the pavement to keep anything from going down his throat.

Once he had Sherlock in this recovery position, John placed his fingers to Sherlock's pulse point once again, raising his left hand to look at his watch as he began counting the beats of his heart and watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall for the next thirty seconds. Once he was finished, he quickly calculated the rates per minute.

_Pulse 68. Respirations 16._

John then placed a hand to Sherlock's forehead, eyes widening when he felt the chill there.

_God, how long has he been out here?_

John glanced back at Greg, who had already gotten off of the phone. "Your coat, quick."

As Greg began removing his coat, John did the same, throwing it over Sherlock's body. Greg handed John his coat, and John then tucked that one around Sherlock as well. He leaned once more over Sherlock's face, listening as closely as he could to Sherlock's lungs without the aid of a stethoscope.

Before long, the ambulance arrived, and the EMTs were swarming over Sherlock and loading him onto the stretcher. As they walked, John kept pace, giving them Sherlock's medical status.

"Pulse rate steady, sixty-eight. Pulse strength two. Resps slow and regular, sixteen. GCS score three."

They loaded Sherlock into the back of the ambulance, and John climbed in next to the cot, watching his friend as they sped towards the hospital.

_Please wake up, Sherlock._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Monday**

"His vitals are very promising. The assessment of his reflexes and cranial nerves shows no damage to the brain so far that we can see. A CT scan shows an intracranial hemorrhage at the site of the trauma. Thankfully, it is small enough that no surgical treatment is necessary. He is stable, and the EEG tells us that his brain is still very much active. I'm afraid all we can do now is wait for him to wake up."

John stared down at Sherlock's body in the hospital bed as the doctor's words washed over him. The detective looked so frail, so…lifeless lying there. John had barely ever seen Sherlock sleep, and now, here he was…in a coma.

They had traded Sherlock's designer suit and coat for a hospital gown and had hooked him up to an IV, heart monitor and electroencephalograph. Now, Sherlock lay dead—John cringed at the thought—to the world, the heart monitor steadily beeping away.

John had called Mary as soon as they had arrived at the hospital, telling her about what had happened. She had said she would be stopping by when Rachel woke up. Greg, in the meantime, had gone back to Baker Street to search it, leaving John to hold vigil at Sherlock's bedside.

Seeing his best friend lying in that hospital bed brought back the recent memories from his shooting. They had almost lost him then, and John was desperate to not have that happen again. He would do everything in his power to make sure that Sherlock got well again. Even if that meant calling on Mycroft.

Which was exactly what John had done.

He had contacted Mycroft and informed him of Sherlock's status. Mycroft had replied with an offer to send a specialist, but doubted it would help wake Sherlock up faster. Knowing there was really nothing anyone could do and that it was all up to Sherlock from here on out, John had declined but thanked him.

Now, all that was left was the waiting.

"Hey."

John looked up at the door of Sherlock's room to see Greg and Doctor Molly Hooper walking in.

"Hi," John replied as he leaned forward in his seat by Sherlock's bed, running a hand tiredly over his face. "Come on in, guys."

"How is he?" asked Molly, staring with red, tear-stained eyes at the body in the bed.

John's gaze fell back to his best friend, speaking quietly. "He's fine…" He glanced back to see the two of them watching him in rising worry. He shook his head quickly. "No, I'm sorry. He really is good. His, um…he's stable, and, uh…very healthy for a coma patient."

"Healthy?" asked Greg.

John began explaining for the Inspector's sake. "Yeah, there's a bleed in his brain where he took the blow to the head, a small one. Basically, his brain has shut itself off to heal. Did you find anything at the flat? Any notes he was keeping?"

"Nothing," Greg told him as Molly moved to the other side of Sherlock's bed. "If he **had** kept any notes, they grabbed those, too. They were thorough."

John sighed as he looked back at Sherlock. "So, we have no clue when the bomb's going off or where."

Molly sat down by Sherlock's bedside, hesitantly reaching forward and grasping Sherlock's hand in her own.

"Did you find anything on him?" asked Greg.

John's gaze shot back up to Greg. "I didn't even think of that."

He launched up from his seat and headed to the bag of Sherlock's personal effects they had given him. He pulled out the scarf, the shoes, the coat and all of his clothes, going through all of the pockets.

John looked back at Greg, defeat in his eyes. "Nothing."

Greg sighed as he turned away, and John looked back at Sherlock. If he had only gotten into that cab with Sherlock at the crime scene. He could have been there to help Sherlock fight off his attackers. He could have been there to stop the burglars from getting into Sherlock's hidden compartment—

"Oh, idiot!" exclaimed John, turning back to the bag.

"Excuse me?" said Greg.

"Not you, me," John told him, hurriedly pulling the Belstaff back out again. "Why didn't I think of it?"

"Think of what?" asked Molly.

John grabbed hold of the upper left lapel, ripping the inner lining away from it. Spotting a flash of white, John let out a laugh.

"Sherlock, you brilliant bastard!" grinned John. He yanked the paper out of the secret pocket. He opened it up, looking down at the shaky handwriting.

"It's gibberish!" Greg exclaimed over John's shoulder.

"No, no, no, it's code!" John told him. "We use it all the time during our cases." He squinted down at the note, bringing up his mental Rosetta stone. "Uh…'Bomb…set for…Friday.' That's it."

"Friday," said Greg. "That's just four days away!"

"Looks like he was in the middle of writing it all down when he passed out," said John.

"So, we have four days to search all of London for a bomb," muttered Greg. "I'm gonna go see if we can suss out anything from those maps. Let me know if he wakes up."

"All right," John assured him as he headed out the door.

John then turned to look at Molly, who was still holding Sherlock's hand. As he approached the bed, Molly glanced up at him and quickly removed her hand.

"You don't have to," John told her. "He'd appreciate it."

Molly smiled a little, chuckling. "No, he wouldn't." She turned her gaze back to Sherlock, watching him.

"You know, it's looking really good for him," John reminded her. "In most cases, the deeper the coma, the better the recovery."

Molly nodded, still staring at Sherlock. "I know."

John watched her a moment longer before taking his own seat across from her. He had seen her this distraught over Sherlock before. While he was hospitalized after the shooting, Molly visited him often, most of the time while he was unconscious. Even though Sherlock knew about Molly's feelings towards him, she seemed determined to not flaunt them at him. Sometimes, John wished she would.

John wasn't stupid; he knew the detective harbored _something_ for the pathologist. He had seen the look on Sherlock's face when Molly had slapped him in the lab after he had gotten high. True, his cool exterior had fallen back into place as quick as it could afterwards, but John had seen it: shame. The man had looked absolutely disappointed with himself and had actually **allowed** Molly to hit him.

So, yes, John wished Molly would actually flirt with Sherlock. Perhaps enough friendly attention from her would finally get through Sherlock's thick, stubborn skull.

* * *

"You should go home."

John shook himself out of his stupor, looking up to see Molly pulling her coat on. "Hmm?"

"He'll wake up sooner or later," Molly told him. "I'd like to stay with him, too, but…no food or sleep isn't going to help him."

John sighed as he looked back at his friend. "You're right." He smiled as he got to his feet as well. "You're right." He pulled on his own coat. "It's not too serious. They said he **is **going to wake up. They just don't know when." He walked back over to the bed and gave his friend's hand a squeeze. "We'll be back later, Sherlock."

As John turned and headed to the door, he glanced back when he reached it and saw Molly bending over the bed and placing a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. John gave a little smile as he quickly looked back at the door as though he had not seen anything. But on the way out of the hospital, John stopped by the nurse's station and made sure to add Molly's number to the contact list for when Sherlock woke up.

By the time John got home, Mary and Rachel were already sound asleep. John spent a while in the nursery, watching his daughter sleep before moving to the bedroom. The entire day and night's events had caught up to him, and he barely had time to climb into bed before sleep fell on his mind.

* * *

**Tuesday**

Molly woke up after a restless night's sleep, lying in bed for a few minutes before Toby began mewling from the kitchen. With a sigh, Molly dragged herself out of bed and shuffled into the other room.

"All right, all right," mumbled Molly as Toby began rubbing up against her legs. "Give me a minute."

She pulled down a plate and grabbed the can of chicken she had left in the fridge. Pretty soon, she had the dish ready and down on the floor in the corner. Toby squatted down next to the plate and began chowing down.

Molly headed back to her room to get ready and was just finishing her hair when her phone rang. She pinned the last curl in place and picked up the mobile, answering it. "Hello?"

"Yes, Miss Hooper?" replied a female voice. "This is Ashley Bessett at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. We have urgent news regarding Sherlock Holmes."

Molly's heart soared when she heard that. She honestly hadn't expected him to wake up this early.

"You are needed at the hospital," said Ashley before abruptly hanging up.

Molly's heart sank back down towards panic. Surely, if it was good news, they would have said so. Why would they have hung up like that?

As dozens of horror scenarios filled her head, she quickly grabbed her bag and rushed out the door.

* * *

"John. John!"

John jolted awake as someone jostled his shoulder. He turned his head on his pillow to find Mary standing over him, Rachel in one arm and a mobile in the other hand.

"What is it?" asked John sleepily.

Mary held up the phone. "The hospital called. It's Sherlock."

The sleep suddenly evaporated as John struggled quickly up to a sitting position. "What did they say?"

"Nothing," Mary told him. "They hung up before I could ask. They just said they needed you. It didn't sound good, John."

John scrambled to his feet, pulling on his shoes and thanking God he had fallen asleep in his clothes last night. He grabbed his phone from Mary's hand, giving her and his daughter a kiss before darting out of the bedroom. He grabbed his coat on his way to the front door.

"I'll call you!" John called out before hurrying out and hailing a cab.

It took ten minutes for the cab to get to St. Bart's, and John tried not to think of what could have happened to Sherlock while he had been sleeping. He rushed up the stairs once he was inside, hurrying towards the nurse's station.

"John Watson for Sherlock Holmes," John blurted.

"Room 206," the nurse told him. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

John allowed a momentary frown before heading that way. It couldn't be very bad if they hadn't moved him, right? Molly rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, hurrying right towards him.

John stopped and held an arm out for her. "In here."

Molly caught up to him quickly, and they both headed into the room. They came to a stop as soon as they were inside.

There lay Sherlock, still in a coma, heart monitor still beeping steadily away. John and Molly exchanged a glance before heading over to the bed and examining the EEG.

"I don't get it," muttered John. "His condition hasn't changed. Why were we called?"

The room's door opened, and Greg hurried in with a smile on his face. It quickly faded to a confused frowned as his eyes landed on the comatose Sherlock.

"He's still asleep," said Greg, looking accusatorily over at John.

"Yeah, we were just saying so," said John. "Did the hospital call you, too?"

Greg's frown deepened. "No, you did."

"I what?" asked John.

"Or, well, you texted me," said Greg, pulling his phone out and frowning down at it. "You said to come to the hospital right away."

"Well, I didn't," said John.

"No, I did."

The three of them turned to see Mycroft Holmes entering the room.

"You did all this just to get us here?" asked John, his voice rising. "You think you could have done it without causing a panic?"

"My apologies, but it was imperative to get you three here immediately," Mycroft told them, holding his hands on top of his umbrella in front of him. He then looked at Greg. "Are you any closer to ascertaining the whereabouts of the bomb?"

Greg shook his head, not bothering to ask how he had known that. "No. We can't narrow anything down from the abandoned flat. Everything we needed was on those tapes."

John sighed in resignation as he looked over at Sherlock lying comatose in his hospital bed. "And is now trapped in his head."

They all stared down at the sleeping detective. There was no guarantee that Sherlock would wake up in time to tell them where the bomb was. It was over.

"In that case, I may be able to help," Mycroft told them in a voice that sounded far too cheerful for the situation.

The three of them looked back at the politician as he gave a small smile.

"Have you ever heard of an American scientist by the name of Doctor Walter Bishop?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**Tuesday**

John stepped off of the private plane with Molly and Greg as the sun began to set, and they headed towards a blonde woman in a suit that was standing beside a black SUV.

"Agent Olivia Dunham, I presume," said Greg, shaking her hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade." He stepped back as he gestured to his companions. "Dr. John Watson and Dr. Molly Hooper."

"Pleasure to meet you all," agent Dunham told them with a smile as she shook the doctors' hands. "I hope we can be of some help."

"Yeah, how can the FBI help?" John inquired. "Mycroft didn't really say."

"I'll leave all the explanations to my colleagues back at Harvard," Olivia told them. "They'll be able to explain it much better than I can."

"Right, okay, an ambulance?" asked John.

Olivia nodded towards the end of the plane, where said ambulance was waiting.

"Good, thanks," said John. "I'll just see that they get Sherlock loaded properly."

"I'll help," said Molly, going with John back to the plane.

John stayed close as they unloaded Sherlock's stretcher from the plane and wheeled him towards the ambulance, making sure the IV and heart monitor attached to the gurney stayed attached. Once they had Sherlock successfully loaded into the ambulance, John joined the other two as they climbed into the SUV and Olivia started driving them towards Harvard University.

John took in the sights around them as they drove through Boston, Massachusetts. He had only ever been to America once before, and that had been for a medical conference during his schooling. He never thought he would be back, much less for something like this.

John had tried to convince Mycroft to get this scientist to come to London, but Mycroft had insisted that Doctor Bishop required the use of his lab back in Boston. Once the doctors had approved Sherlock as stable enough for transport (John and Molly double-checking themselves as well), they had prepped Sherlock and taken him to an airfield, where a private jet Mycroft had provided was waiting.

Molly had insisted on coming with, not wanting to be parted from Sherlock when he was sick. Greg, of course, was coming along so he could call his team in Scotland Yard as soon as they had news. John had called Mary and explained everything to her, thoroughly torn between his desire to stay with his family and his need to be with a comatose best friend. Mary had naturally insisted he go with Sherlock; the two of them could survive a few days without him.

John wondered just what exactly this scientist person would be able to do. He had gotten the impression that Mycroft had not suggested this man as a solution for waking Sherlock up. He was perfectly capable of healing from this on his own. Mycroft's suggestion had popped up once they declared that Sherlock was the only one who could stop this bomb. How was this specialist supposed to help with that?

Before he knew it, they were pulling up in front of a tall stone building. John, Molly, Greg and Olivia got out of the car, watching as the ambulance headed around back.

"They'll bring Mr. Holmes through the back," Olivia told them as she led them towards the building. "It'll be easier to get the stretcher in that way."

The three Brits followed Olivia through the doors and into the halls teeming with students. They seemed to weave in and out of corridors before approaching a set of double doors labeled:

B314.1

Dr. Walter Bishop

Underneath, a name had been scratched out, but it looked like "Dr. William Bell."

Olivia stopped and turned to face them, giving a hesitant glance at the doors before looking back at them. "Look, I should warn you. Dr. Bishop can be a bit…" she grimaced, "eccentric."

John glanced over at Greg and Molly before they burst into quiet laughter.

Olivia frowned as a smile graced her face. "What?"

John shook his head. "No, sorry, it's just…" He glanced once again over at Molly.

"We're used to eccentric," Molly told the other woman.

Olivia gave an amused smile before opening the door and heading inside. As the three of them headed in after her, they were greeted with the sight of a huge laboratory filled with equipment: tables, machines, beakers, surgical instruments, autopsy trays, monitors and who knew what else. A loud "MOO!" sounded through the room, and John glanced over to see a cow stabled in an area to their left.

_What in the…_ John wondered.

"Because here in the civilized world, we humans are considerate of other people."

"Was I not being considerate?"

"No, Walter, calling Astrid at three o'clock in the morning to ask her to get you a butterscotch sundae is not considerate."

"I didn't want to wake you, son."

John, Molly and Greg stepped up to the top of the steps that led down into the main lab to see three people sitting on stools at one of the tables, each of them with a sub sandwich in their hands. One was a young African-American woman with short curly black hair. The man seated next to her was also young with brown hair, stubble and greenish-blue eyes. The older man sitting across from them was wearing a white lab coat and had dark gray hair.

"Walter, how many times do I have to tell you that Astrid is not your personal assistant," the brunette man told the elder gentleman. "She is an agent of the FBI."

"It's okay, Peter," the African-American woman told him. "I didn't—"

"No, it's not okay," the brunette man—Peter—told her, aiming his frustration back at the other man—Walter. "Because he needs to learn his boundaries."

Olivia cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the three of them.

Walter turned in his seat, giving them an excited smile. "Oh, hello. You caught us in the middle of dinner!"

"Everyone, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard," said Olivia as she introduced each of them, "Dr. Molly Hooper and Dr. John Watson." She then turned to them as she pointed at Peter. "This is Peter Bishop," she pointed at the African-American woman, "Agent Astrid Farnsworth," and then she pointed at Walter, "and Peter's father Dr. Walter Bishop."

Walter smiled at them, eyes widening as he looked at Molly. "Ooh, young lady, would you like some licorice?"

Molly exchanged an awkward glance with John and Greg before looking back at Walter. "Um…no, I'm—"

Peter waved a hand at them, a fond and exasperated smile on his face. "Ignore him. It's nice to meet you."

"You, too," said John as he led them down into the lab.

Walter stood as they approached him. "I understand you have a man in a coma for me to look at."

Peter stood quickly and walked over to him. "Walter, be sensitive. The patient is a friend of theirs."

"Oh!" said Walter, jumping a little. "I am so sorry about that."

A set of double doors to their right burst open, and the EMTs wheeled Sherlock's stretcher into the lab.

"Oh, fantastic!" exclaimed Walter, abandoning his sandwich and hurrying over to Sherlock as the EMTs took their leave.

John stepped over to his best friend, helping Walter check him over real quick and set up a more permanent heart monitor and attaching an EEG to his head.

John glanced back at Molly and Greg, who had been watching anxiously. "He's still stable."

As the two of them relaxed, John turned to see Walter frowning at Sherlock's EEG. "What is it?"

"Do you have the computer record of his electroencephalograph readings?" asked Walter, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Molly immediately stepped forward as she dug in her bag, pulling out the printouts and handing them to the scientist. Walter whipped through them as his frown deepened.

"This man is still in a coma," stated Walter.

"Yeah, Walter, he's still in a coma," Peter told him, sounding irritated. "Otherwise, they wouldn't be here."

"He shouldn't **be **in a coma," said Walter distractedly.

"Well, of course he shouldn't," said Peter.

"No, you don't understand!" Walter exclaimed in frustration. "His readings show a change over the last two days. While it's true that he wouldn't actually be conscious yet, he should at least be _starting_ to wake up, according to the extent of his injury."

"What are you saying, Walter?" Olivia asked as she stepped closer. "What change do you see on the EEG?"

"His first readings show deep coma, but now, they are reading as a deeper level of unconsciousness," Walter explained. "His brainwaves should be improving, but instead, it's as though he's keeping himself from getting better."

John frowned down at Sherlock, who lay oblivious to the rest of the world. _What is going on in there?_

"Well, this should be rather easy," said Walter suddenly, his entire demeanor changing.

"Sorry, what?" asked Greg.

"We might even be able to ascertain why he's locked himself inside his head—" Walter went on.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," John interrupted. "What are you talking about?"

The four Americans looked up at them, Walter as if he was just now noticing them.

"What did they tell you about what we do here?" asked Peter.

"Not much," Molly responded.

"Not anything, really," said Greg.

Olivia stepped forward. "We work in a Joint Federal Task Force of the FBI called Fringe Division. We investigate cases relating to what we call fringe science: astral projection, transmutation, reanimation—"

"Reanimation?" said John with a laugh. "What, like Dr. Frankenstein?"

Peter chuckled. "That's what I said."

"What we plan to do with, uh…Mr., uh…" began Walter.

"Sherlock Holmes," Olivia supplied.

Walter did a double-take, looking at Olivia with wide eyes. "Not _the _Sherlock Holmes!"

"You've heard of him?" asked John.

"His website, 'The Science of Deduction,'" said Walter, looking down at Sherlock with newfound respect. "Masterful…"

"Walter," said Peter bracingly.

"Hmm?" said Walter, looking over at his son. "Oh!" He gave a jump as he looked back at them. "Yes. We will synchronize the consciousness of one of you with the consciousness of Mr. Holmes here."

Greg's brows rose in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, very," said Walter. "I have to warn you, though. It will involve being submersed in a sensory deprivation tank, a probe attached to your brainstem and a dose of psychotropic drugs."

John, Molly and Greg stared incredulously at Walter.

"You've gotta be kidding me," mumbled Greg.

"Mycroft sent us here," said John. "Why would he do that if Dr. Bishop wasn't for real?"

"But, John, he's talking about being able to enter Sherlock's _head_!" Greg argued back, his voice rising. "I mean, astral projection? Reanimation?"

"It's real," said Peter, stepping forward. "I've seen it. And I was one of Walter's biggest naysayers. Trust me, I have seen this man pull off the impossible."

John looked down at Sherlock before glancing back at this "Fringe Division" in trepidation. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Several times," Olivia answered. "I joined a fellow agent's consciousness to catch a suspect. It works."

John stared at her confident expression before looking down at Sherlock. Could this really happen? Well, that wasn't John's true concern. If three people were backing up Walter's methods and theories—two of them being FBI agents—it was obviously real. The real question was, could John do this for Sherlock?

Without a doubt, diving into Sherlock's head would be a dangerous risk. Who knew what joining someone's mind—_Sherlock's_ mind—could actually do to a person. Then again, Olivia said that she had done the procedure, and she appeared just fine. And then again, that had been someone else's head, not Sherlock's. So, could John do this for Sherlock?

_Didn't he do it for you?_

Sherlock had given up everything and everyone he knew and cared about to save John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson. He had set off for what could possibly have been a suicide mission, not knowing what would happen or what he would go through. Surely, John could suffer through whatever mental side effects this would bring on in return?

John looked up at Walter, nodding. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Excellent!" cheered Walter, his face lighting up. "We'll start first thing in the morning! You'll need plenty of rest."

"You mentioned something about a sensory deprivation tank," said John.

"Over there," said Peter, gesturing to a large metal tank to their left.

"You got two of those?" asked Molly.

John turned to look at her with a frown before the implication of Molly's words hit him. "Molly, no—"

"I am not letting you jump in there to save him all on your own," Molly told him sternly. She then gave a little smile. "I mean, it's Sherlock. You'll get lost in there in no time by yourself."

John gave a chuckle before once again frowning in apprehension. It was true. They all knew that Sherlock's mind was like no one else's, so who knew what that mind palace was like. Having someone else there as an anchor would definitely be a help.

John nodded. "You're right."

Molly smiled as she looked at Walter. "So, what do we do for this?"

"Well, we will attach you both to an intravenous line to keep you hydrated," Walter began explaining. "We will monitor your vitals throughout the procedure. There will be an electromagnetic probe inserted into the base of your skull—"

"What?" exclaimed Greg.

"—and you will be dosed with several psychotropics," Walter continued.

"Which ones?" asked John.

"A mix of serotonin, Neurontin, Lithium Carbonate and lysergic acid diethylamide," Water told them.

John's eyes widened. "LSD? Seriously?"

"Yeah, he's serious," said Peter. "You're lucky he's not self-medicating today."

John looked over at Molly and Greg, muttering in a low voice. "It's like Sherlock with Alzheimer's."

"And, of course, you'll need to be unclothed for the procedure," finished Walter.

"What?" exclaimed Molly as John's jaw dropped slightly.

"Oh, LSD and a metal rod in your skull, you don't bat an eye," said Greg, "but 'naked' is where you draw the line?"

"Oh, no, not naked," corrected Walter. "You'll be able to keep your undergarments on."

John and Molly looked at each other uncomfortably.

"Of course, if that's such a problem for you, I'm sure we could make do with bathing suits," muttered Walter.

John and Molly breathed a sigh of relief.

"And we didn't think to mention this when it was Olivia's turn in the tank?" said Peter.

"Now, Agent Dunham, we will be needing a second tank," said Walter, heading off to the other side of the lab. "And I'll need to make some LSD."

Olivia nodded as she stepped away, pulling out her phone. "This is Dunham. I need a tank brought to Dr. Bishop's lab, eight feet by…"

"What time?" asked Molly.

"Eight o'clock," Peter told them.

"I've already booked you some rooms at the Marriott," said Astrid, walking over to them. "I can call you a cab, if you'd like."

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," said Greg with a smile.

As Astrid walked away and Peter went back to his dinner, Greg turned to the two doctors. Molly stepped over to Sherlock's stretcher, placing a hand on his head.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Greg.

Molly ran her hand through Sherlock's hair, brushing it away from his face. "Absolutely."

John nodded, smiling at Greg. "We're sure." He looked over at Peter. "Hey, Peter, um…"

Peter stepped over to them.

"Molly and I are the only ones that are going to be injected with the drugs, right?" asked John. "Because Sherlock…has a history with…"

Peter nodded, understanding. "Don't worry. Just you and Molly."

John breathed out a sigh of relief. "Good."

* * *

**Wednesday**

John, Molly and Greg entered the lab that morning, spotting the extra tank placed across from the original one. Walter and Peter were bustling about the lab, preparing things for the day's procedure.

"Oh, good!" said Walter with a smile. "You're here! Did you bring the suits?"

John and Molly each held up a shopping bag to show him.

"Excellent!" said Walter. "You'll find rooms to change in to your left."

John glanced back at what looked like offices before setting his bag on the floor at the top of the steps. He headed down to the floor, where Sherlock's stretcher was situated between the two tanks.

"How is he?" asked John as he checked the monitors.

"No change all night," Walter informed him. "Still holding steady."

"Good," muttered John. He glanced around at the equipment that had been gathered around them. Most of it looked twenty years old, at least. "Are you sure this is safe?"

"My equipment has never failed me," said Walter with a smile. "They're an oldie, but a goodie!" He gave a chuckle.

John looked over at Peter with raised brows. Peter just shook his head and gave him a thumbs-up.

John looked back down at Sherlock, sighing. "All right, then." He turned and headed back towards the offices, grabbing his bag on the way.

He and Molly chose two rooms and began changing. John had chosen the cheapest, plainest swim trunks that he could find, knowing he wouldn't be keeping them. He didn't have much opportunities back in London to go swimming, nor did he really want to. A few minutes later, John emerged from the office, wearing the dressing gown they had provided. He headed down towards the tanks sitting in the chair next to one of the tanks.

The next fifteen minutes were spent attaching the leads for the heart monitors and vitals and inserting the IVs. Molly was sitting across from John in her own chair as Peter attached a lead to her stomach just underneath the top of her two-piece bathing suit. John gave her a comforting smile as Walter stepped up to him.

"Okay, Dr. Watson," said Walter as he approached with a small device with wires running out of it, "we'll now insert the probe."

'_Cause that doesn't sound weird at all, _John thought as he stood and removed his robe, setting it down on the chair.

"Whoa," said Peter as he walked over. "What happened there?"

John followed the man's gaze towards his left shoulder, looking down at his scar. "Oh, that." He looked back up at him. "Old war wound."

"War?" asked Olivia from nearby.

"I was a Captain in the RAMC," John told them. "I was tending to some soldiers when a sniper's bullet got me. That's what sent me back home."

Peter narrowed his eyes at the scar. "Looks like it was close."

"Yeah, it was…" John muttered. He turned and leaned his hands onto the back of his chair. "Okay, go ahead."

"Tilt your head forward," Walter instructed.

John lowered his head, gripping the chair in his hands. Walter swabbed the nape of his neck with an alcohol wipe before injecting some anesthesia into it. John then braced himself as he felt the cold metal tips on either side of the spinal column in his neck before suddenly, they were stabbed into him. John gave a small shout as he breathed through the pain.

"You okay?" asked Peter.

"I'll live," mumbled John, turning to sit back in his chair.

Walter then went to grab another probe and approached Molly, who also stood and deposited her robe on her chair. Peter went over as well, offering his arms for Molly to hang on to as Walter anesthetized her as well. Molly's grip on Peter's arms tightened as Walter shoved the probe into the back of her neck. Molly let out a yell at the pain, and Peter slowly lowered her back into her chair. Walter and Peter then injected the drugs into John and Molly's arms before opening the doors to the tanks.

"It's time," said Walter.

John stood and moved towards the tank as Walter carried the IV bag and wires with him. John looked back to see Molly stepping over towards the stretcher that Sherlock lay on. She ran a hand over his hair as she took his hand in her other. The room seemed to freeze as everyone watched what was happening.

Molly bent over Sherlock, placing a kiss to his lips, a tear falling down her face as she pulled away. "I'll see you soon."

Peter held her IV bag and wires as she stepped over to her own tank.

John turned back to his own tank, stepping down into the salt-laden water. He looked back at Molly as she stepped into her own tank and looked back at him. "Good luck."

"You, too," said Molly as she laid down in the water.

John scooted down into the tank, laying himself out as Walter plugged the wires into an outlet inside the tank and hung the IV from the wall.

"We'll be able to hear what you're saying," Walter told him as John got himself comfortable in the water. "But we won't be able to hear Mr. Holmes. If he tells you where the bomb is, you'll have to relay it to us."

John nodded. "Got it."

"See you on the other side," said Walter, closing the doors with a loud clang.

John took several deep breaths as he floated in the tank. He could feel the LSD starting to take effect, sending his brain into a light buzz. A few moments later, a voice came over a speaker.

"Dr. Watson?" said Walter. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," John told him.

There was another pause before Walter's voice returned.

"And here we go…" said Walter.

John felt his heart beginning to pound faster and harder in his chest.

"…in three…"

John let out a nervous breath, his hands clenching and unclenching beside him.

"…two…"

John closed his eyes, stilling his body as best he could.

"…one."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Molly opened her eyes, staring around at the fog around her. She turned around on the spot, looking for something but seeing nothing.

"John!" Molly called, looking all around her.

"Dr. Hooper?"

Molly instinctively spun around to face the person who had spoken, but saw no one and nothing. "Dr. Bishop?"

"Dr. Hooper, can you hear me?" Walter's voice asked.

"Yeah, I can hear you," said Molly.

"All right, wait a moment," Walter told her. "I'll guide Dr. Watson to you."

The voice vanished, and Molly waited a moment before another voice began speaking.

"Molly…"

Molly turned to look for him. "John?"

"Molly, I can hear you!" came John's voice. "Keep talking!"

"John, I'm here!" Molly called. "John?"

"Molly!"

Molly turned to see John emerging from the fog, rushing towards her. "John!" She hurried towards him, running into his arms.

"Can you both hear me?" Walter asked.

"Yeah, Dr. Bishop, we can hear you," said John as he pulled away from Molly. "We're both here, but where is Sherlock?"

"He's there," Walter told them. "You just need to find him."

"Find him…" mumbled John as they looked around themselves. "There's nothing but fog."

Molly frowned as something began humming in her ear.

"Is there anything you can see?" asked Walter. "Hear?"

John shook his head. "No, nothing."

"No, wait," said Molly, putting her hand on John's shoulder. "Listen."

John stilled and listened as the distant hum began to grow. After a moment, he smiled over at Molly.

"It's a violin," said John.

Molly nodded, her own smile growing. "Yeah…"

The violin's notes drifted around them, rising in volume as a tune began to form.

"'We Wish You a Merry Christmas,'" said Molly.

As they listened to the familiar song, a room began to take shape around them. The fog was still obscuring everything, but it was definitely a room they were now standing in. As the light around them grew, the violin finished with a flourish. Applause and an appreciative whistle echoed through the room.

"Lovely!" cried Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Sherlock, that was lovely!"

"Marvelous!" said John's voice.

Molly glanced over at John, who shook his head; he hadn't spoken. John's voice had come from somewhere around them. In the meantime, figures had started to form in the room.

"I wish you could have worn the antlers!" said Mrs. Hudson's voice.

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," came Sherlock's voice.

"I remember this…" said John.

The fog began to dissipate as the room came into focus. They were standing in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, which was decked out for Christmas. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, Greg was standing at the entryway to the kitchen, a second John was heading towards Mrs. Hudson with a cup of tea, and Sherlock was standing at the window with his violin and bow in hand.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Molly as she and John hurried towards him.

"Sherlock, thank God," said John. "Now, listen, we don't—"

"No, thank you, Sarah," said Sherlock to the woman offering a tray of mince pies and cakes to him.

The other John—the John in the memory—hurried over to the woman and put his arm around her as she turned away. "Uh, no, no, no, no. He's not good—"

"Sherlock," said John urgently, but Sherlock was now trying to pinpoint the name of John's girlfriend.

"Why can't he see us?" asked Molly.

"I don't think that's him," said John. "Not really. It's just a memory."

"Jeanette!" exclaimed Sherlock with a false grin. "Ah, process of elimination."

Memory John awkwardly shepherded Jeanette away as Sherlock looked across to the door as a new arrival came in.

"Oh, dear Lord," muttered Sherlock.

A second Molly walked in, smiling shyly and carrying two bags full of presents. "Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello."

John and Molly stepped back towards the sofa to watch the memory unfold.

Molly suddenly groaned. "Oh, not this Christmas."

"…to come up," finished Memory Molly as everyone began greeting her cheerfully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving an overly cheerful smile. "Oh, everybody's saying hello to each other. How wonderful." His smile dropped as he set his violin and bow to the side.

Memory Molly smiled nervously at him as she began to take off her coat and scarf.

Memory John held out a hand to take her coat as she removed it. "Let me, er…holy Mary!"

Greg gawped in similar appreciation as Memory Molly revealed that she was wearing a very attractive black dress. "Wow!"

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" asked Memory Molly.

Sherlock sat down at the table in between the two windows. "No stopping them, apparently."

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" said Mrs. Hudson.

Memory Molly giggled nervously, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock as he started typing on John's laptop.

Memory John brought a chair over for her. "Have a seat."

"John?" said Sherlock.

"Mm?" said Memory John, going over to see what Sherlock was looking at.

Greg touched Memory Molly's arm to get her attention. "Molly?"

Memory Molly turned towards him.

"Want a drink?" asked Greg.

As she accepted the offer, Memory John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to look at the screen.

"The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," Sherlock told him.

Memory John pulled a mock-angry face. "Oh, no! Christmas is canceled!" He slammed a hand onto the table.

Sherlock pointed at the screen. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!"

"People like the hat," Memory John told him as he straightened up.

"No, they don't," said Sherlock quickly. "What people?"

As Memory John went over to his armchair and Memory Molly began a conversation with Mrs. Hudson, John and Molly turned to each other.

"What do we do?" asked Molly. "Leave?"

"I don't know," muttered John. "Walter, we're in the middle of one of Sherlock's memories."

"Do you see him?" asked Walter.

"Well, yeah, but we think it's just the him in the memory," Molly explained. "He won't respond to us."

There was silence for a moment before Walter spoke again.

"Follow the memories, wherever they may lead you," Walter told them. "We may be seeing why Mr. Holmes' status is not improving. It is possible that, for whatever reason, he is trapped in his memories. Go where they take you. Keep looking for anything out of the ordinary. Something that shouldn't be there: a door, a window, anything."

"Okay," said John with a nod.

"First time ever she's cleaned up her act," Memory John was saying from his seat on the arm of his armchair, his arm around Jeanette as she sat in the armchair. "She's off the booze."

"Nope," said Sherlock immediately.

Memory John glared over at him. "Shut up, Sherlock."

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," said Sherlock.

"Sorry, what?" asked Memory Molly as Molly hid her face in her hands at what was to come.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," said Sherlock as he looked over at her.

"Take a day off," Memory John muttered quietly in exasperation.

Greg took a glass across to the table and put it down near Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink."

"Oh, come on," said Sherlock. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He stood up and walked towards Memory Molly, looking at the other presents, which weren't so carefully wrapped. "It's for someone special, then." He picked up the well-wrapped red present. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."

Memory John looked over at Memory Molly anxiously as she squirmed in front of Sherlock.

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn," continued Sherlock. "And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing." Smiling smugly across to Memory John and Jeanette, he started to turn over the gift tag attached to the present. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…" He trailed off as he looked down at the writing on the tag.

Suddenly, some lovely red handwriting appeared next to Sherlock's head, and it read:

_**Dearest Sherlock**_

_**Love Molly xxx**_

John and Molly frowned at the words floating in the air. It was as though Sherlock's thoughts were written in front of them for them to see. Sherlock gazed at the tag in shock.

Memory Molly gasped quietly. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always_."

Fog suddenly swept through the room, blinding them. Molly clung onto John's arm in fright before it cleared. They were now standing in a roadway outside of a building. The sign hanging there read, "Cross Keys Inn."

"Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it," came John's voice.

John and Molly turned to see Memory John seated at a table across from the pub, eating breakfast.

Sherlock was standing next to him, drinking his coffee. "I see."

Memory John smiled. "No, you don't."

"No, I don't," said Sherlock. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment!" said Memory John as John and Molly stepped closer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh." He sat down on the bench next to John.

"Listen, what happened to me in the lab?" asked Memory John.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then turned around and reached for a box of sauce sachets, looking worried about how to explain. "Do you want some sauce with that?"

"I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there?" asked Memory John. "Fear and stimulus, you said."

Sherlock rummaged through the box of sachets. "You must have been dosed with it elsewhere, when you went to the lab maybe. You saw those pipes: pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve. And they were carrying the gas, so…Um, ketchup, was it, or brown…"

Memory John had paused in his breakfast. "Hang on, you thought it was in the sugar."

Sherlock stared at him while trying to maintain a neutral expression.

"You were _convinced_ it was in the sugar," continued Memory John.

Sherlock looked away again. "Better get going, actually." He looked at his watch. "There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want…"

Memory John turned his head away as he began to realize the horrible truth. "Oh, God. It was you. _You _locked me in that bloody lab."

"I _had _to," said Sherlock. "It was an experiment."

"An _experiment_?" Memory John exclaimed furiously.

Sherlock glanced at people sitting nearby. "Shh."

"I was terrified, Sherlock," said Memory John quietly yet still furiously. "I was scared to death!"

"I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee, then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore," said Sherlock.

Memory John sighed in exasperation.

"It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions—well, literally," said Sherlock. "Well, I know what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one."

Memory John looked up from his plate.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock told him.

Memory John went back to eating. "But it wasn't in the sugar."

"No, well, I wasn't to know you'd already been exposed to the gas," said Sherlock.

"So, you got it wrong," said Memory John.

"No," said Sherlock adamantly.

"Mm, you were wrong," said Memory John firmly. "It wasn't in the sugar. You got it _wrong_."

The fog spilled in once more around them, and when it cleared, they were once more in Baker Street. Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace, eyes pouring over the wall of evidence over the mantelpiece. A door slammed before Memory John walked through the door into the sitting room.

Sherlock didn't bother turning around or looking up. "You've been a while."

Memory John walked a few more paces into the room, his shoulders rigid and his fists clenched. He stopped, blinking as he fought to hold onto his anger, and then he turned to Sherlock. "Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" He started pacing, an angry half-smile, half-grimace on his face. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet. And I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

"What?" asked Sherlock absently, clearly not having heard a word.

"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday," shouted Memory John. His voice became rough with anger. "They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good," muttered Sherlock, still not paying any attention. "Fine."

"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time," said Memory John tightly.

As the fog surrounded them yet again, Molly looked over at John.

"This is going to take a while, isn't it?" she asked him.

* * *

**Okay, not sure how I feel about calling them "Memory Molly" or "Memory John," but I had to find some way to differentiate whether it was the John and Molly visiting Sherlock's brain or the John and Molly in the memory itself. Hope it's not too confusing.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

**If I didn't say it before, a special thanks to Ariane DeVere's Sherlock transcripts on Live Journal. I couldn't have done it without you!**

**And yes, I know, re-reading the show during these memories can get awfully tedious, but...well, I'm the author, so if you don't like it, too bad! I do!**

**I have cut it down as best I can. There should only be two more chapters of scenes from the show.**

* * *

John and Molly stepped out of the fog and into a dimly lit pool. Sherlock was standing at the shallow end by the doors, his hand raised as he held a memory stick aloft.

"Oh…" mumbled John, obviously recognizing the memory.

Molly glanced at him as a door opened somewhere in the room. Memory John, wrapped in a thick winter coat, stepped out and turned towards Sherlock. The look that passed over Sherlock's face as he looked towards him was pure hurt and betrayal.

"Evening," said Memory John evenly.

Sherlock's raised hand began to lower slowly, but otherwise, he didn't move, still staring over his shoulder in utter disbelief.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" said Memory John.

"John…" blurted Sherlock softly, shocked. "What the hell…"

"Bet you never saw **this** coming," said Memory John.

Finally, Sherlock managed to move and started to walk slowly forward, still staring at his friend in shock and bewilderment.

With a look of despair that matched Sherlock's own, Memory John took his hands from his pockets and pulled open the coat to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest.

Molly gasped at the sight as a sniper's laser immediately began to dance over the bomb. Sure, she had known something big had happened this early on with Moriarty, but she had never known that John had been that fifth pip. John and Sherlock never talked about it.

"What…would you like me…to make him say…next?" asked Memory John.

Sherlock continued to step towards him, but now, he was looking everywhere but at Memory John as he tried to see who else was in the area.

"Gottle o' geer…" Memory John narrated what he was being told through his ear piece, "gottle o' geer… gottle o' geer—" His voice almost broke at the end.

"Stop it," Sherlock interrupted.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," Memory John narrated. "I stopped him." He tried not to cringe as he listened to the next words. "I can stop John Watson, too." He looked down at the laser point on his chest. "Stop his heart."

Sherlock turned on the spot while he tried to look in all directions. "Who are you?"

A door at the deep end of the pool opened, and a soft Irish accent came lilting into the room.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

Sherlock turned towards the new arrival, who slowly walked out into the open: Jim Moriarty. Molly couldn't help but feel unnerved at the sight of the man. Even though she knew he was dead, she could remember all too well what he had done and put them all through.

With his hands in his pockets, Moriarty casually began to stroll alongside the pool, his voice dropping the plaintive tone. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…"

Sherlock reached down to his trouser pocket and removed a pistol from it.

"…or are you just pleased to see me?" finished Moriarty.

Sherlock raised the pistol and aimed it towards him. "Both."

Moriarty stopped and looked back at him, unafraid. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Sherlock titled his head as he looked more closely at the man.

"Jim?" said Moriarty in a questioning tone, mocking Sherlock. "Jim from the hospital?" He began walking along the deep end again.

Sherlock brought up his other hand to support the one aiming the gun.

Moriarty bit his lip as though disappointed. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point." He turned to face Sherlock just as the sniper's laser flickered over Memory John's upper chest.

Sherlock briefly turned his head towards Memory John, a questioning look on his face.

"Don't be silly," said Moriarty, starting to walk again. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He reached the corner of the pool and stopped. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…" he gave a look of surprise, as if he had only just realized the connection, "like you!"

"'Dear Jim,'" recited Sherlock. "'Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'"

Starting to walk forward again, Moriarty grinned.

"'Dear Jim,'" Sherlock continued. "'Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"

Moriarty stopped again. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," said Sherlock softly. "Brilliant."

Moriarty smiled proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the pistol. "I did."

"You've come the closest. Now, you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

Moriarty shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock." His voice became high-pitched and sing-song. "Daddy's had enough now!" He again started to stroll closer, his voice returning to his normal tone. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems—even thirty million quid—just to get you to come out and play."

Sherlock's eyes couldn't help but flicker across to Memory John a couple of times as he closed his eyes briefly from the strain.

"So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear," said Moriarty. "Back off." He smiled. "Although, I have loved this: this little game of ours." He put on his London accent. "Playing Jim from I.T." He switched back to his Irish accent. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock told him.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty screamed the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant.

"I will stop you," said Sherlock softly.

"No, you won't," said Moriarty, calm once again.

Sherlock looked across to Memory John. "You all right?"

Memory John deliberately kept his gaze away from his friend.

Moriarty walked forward again and leaned into his ear. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."

Memory John met Sherlock's eyes and nodded once.

Sherlock took one hand off the pistol and held out the memory stick towards Moriarty. "Take it."

"Huh?" said Moriarty. "Oh! That!" He strolled past Memory John and reached out, grinning. "The missile plans!" He took the stick from Sherlock's fingers and kissed it. He lowered the stick and looked at it. "Boring!" He shook his head. "I could have got them anywhere." He nonchalantly tossed the stick into the pool.

Memory John raced forward and slammed himself up against Moriarty's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. "Sherlock, run!"

Sherlock backed up a step in surprise, but kept his pistol raised and aimed at Moriarty.

Moriarty laughed in delight. "Good! _Very_ good."

Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty's head, and he started to look up a little anxiously, as though wondering what action the hidden sniper might take.

"John…" muttered Molly, staring at his sacrificial act to save his best friend.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," said Memory John.

"Isn't he sweet?" said Moriarty. "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."

Grimacing angrily, Memory John pulled him even closer onto the bomb sandwiched between them.

Moriarty scowled round at him. "They're so touchingly loyal. But, _oops_!" He grinned briefly at Memory John and then looked towards Sherlock. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson." He chuckled as a new laser point appeared in the middle of Sherlock's forehead.

Memory John stared in horror as Moriarty looked round at him expectantly. Sherlock shook his head slightly.

"Gotcha!" said Moriarty, his voice sing-song once again. He chuckled as Memory John released his grip on him and stepped back, holding his hands up. Moriarty glanced round at him, turning back to Sherlock as he brushed his hands down his suit. He gestured indignantly to it. "Westwood!" He lowered his hands calmly. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," said Sherlock, sounding bored.

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying…I'll burn you." His voice became vicious. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you." His face was a snarl on the word "heart."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," said Sherlock softly.

"But we both know that's not quite true," said Moriarty with a knowing smile.

The fog encircled them again, taking them to the lab at St. Bart's. John and Molly unconsciously held onto each other as they found their footing.

"Okay, that's starting to make me dizzy," muttered John.

They were standing in front of the cabinets by the door. Sherlock was leaning back against the central bench, all rumpled clothes and red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair. Memory Molly stood at the same bench, running some tests. Memory John stood on the other side of the room across from them, arms crossed. To their left, Bill Wiggins was sitting on another bench, his arm being wrapped by Mary. Isaac Whitney stood next to her.

Memory Molly finished her tests and began removing her gloves with two loud snaps.

"Well?" asked Memory John. "Is he clean?"

Throwing her gloves down, Memory Molly turned to him. "Clean?" She turned and walked over to face Sherlock, slapping him hard across the face. She then slapped him a second time and then a third.

Sherlock blinked, grimacing against the pain.

"How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with," Memory Molly told him firmly. She glanced briefly at Memory John and then looked back at Sherlock. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry!"

Sherlock brought a hand up to his face, speaking instead to Memory Molly. "Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it," Memory Molly told him angrily. "Just stop it."

The fog came once more, leaving them in the kitchen of a very fancy-looking restaurant, going by the waiters' tuxedos and dishes the chefs were serving up. John and Molly glanced around, completely lost.

"What the…" muttered Molly, trying to find Sherlock in the organized chaos of the kitchen.

All of a sudden, the doors to the dining room burst open, and Sherlock stepped in, wearing a suit with a bowtie, a pair of glasses and a drawn-on pencil moustache.

"Oh, my God…" John said, lifting a hand to his mouth and starting to laugh a little.

Molly smiled. "What?"

John shook his head. "You'll see."

Molly glanced back up to see that Sherlock had grabbed a bottle of champagne and was headed back to the dining room. The two of them followed him as he hurried through the maze of tables, heading straight for one where Memory John and Mary sat, Memory John with his old moustache. They were smiling and laughing about something.

Suddenly, Sherlock approached the table, holding the bottle out towards Memory John and speaking rapidly in a French accent. "Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking."

Mary shielded her face so Sherlock wouldn't see her giggling silently at Memory John.

"It 'as all the qualities of the old with some of the color of the new," continued Sherlock.

Memory John smiled at Mary, still not looking up. "No, sorry, not now please."

"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend," continued Sherlock, taking off the glasses.

"No, look, seriously…" began Memory John, finally lifting his gaze to meet the waiter's eyes, "could you just…" His face dropped, his entire body jolting as he stared up at Sherlock in utter disbelief.

Sherlock dropped the French accent and slipped into his own voice. "Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters."

Memory John turned his head towards Mary, his eyes filling with tears. He ducked his head momentarily before he stumbled clumsily to his feet.

"John?" asked Mary.

Memory John straightened up, looking down at the table and breathing heavily before lifting his head and briefly locking eyes with Sherlock.

"John, what is it?" asked Mary, worried. "What?"

Memory John looked down again, clearly still in shock.

"Well, short version…" said Sherlock.

Memory John raised his eyes to him again.

"…not dead," said Sherlock.

Memory John stared at him, his face full of pain, shock and growing anger.

Sherlock stared to look a little guilty. "Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. could have given you a heart attack; probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny." He laughed nervously, not meeting Memory John's eyes.

Memory John's gaze was slowly turning murderous.

"Okay, it's not a great defense," said Sherlock.

"Oh, no!" said Mary. "You're—"

Sherlock glanced at her. "Oh, yes."

"Oh, my God," said Mary.

"Not quite."

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

"No."

"You're dead!"

"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." Sherlock picked up a napkin from the table, dipping it into Mary's glass of water and starting to wipe off his moustache. He met Memory John's furious gaze. "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?"

Memory John gave him a tight smile.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God," said Mary angrily. "Do you have any idea what you've done to him?"

Sherlock looked down nervously. "Okay, John, I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology."

Memory John clenched his left fist and slammed it down onto the table, hunching over it.

"All right, just…John?" said Mary. "Just keep…"

Memory John pulled in a deep, shaky breath before looking up at Sherlock, whispering. "Two years." He shook his head, dragging in another long breath and blowing it out again before starting to straighten up. "Two years." He moaned and slumped down over his hands again.

Sherlock had the decency to look awkward.

Memory John glanced up at him momentarily. "I thought…" He groaned, unable to continue.

Mary stared at him in sympathy.

Memory John finally straightened and turned to Sherlock. "I thought…you were dead." His face began to fill with anger again. "Hmm?" He breathed rapidly. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?"

Sherlock looked down, biting his lip.

"How?" demanded Memory John furiously.

"Wait—before you do anything that you might regret…" started Sherlock.

Memory John half-groaned again.

"…um, one question," continued Sherlock. "Just let me ask one question. Um…"

Memory John looked at him, his eyes still full of fury.

Sherlock almost giggled as he gestured towards his own top lip. "Are you really gonna keep that?" He grinned as he turned his head to look at Mary as she laughed in disbelief.

Memory John drew in one more long breath and then hurled himself at Sherlock, grabbing his lapels and bundling him back across the floor until Sherlock lost his footing and fell to the floor. Memory John landed on top of Sherlock and tried to throttle him.

The scene suddenly froze and jumped to a café, where Sherlock sat at a table with Memory John and Mary, as though someone had pressed the skip button on a DVD remote.

"You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick," said Memory John.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"I don't care _how_ you faked it, Sherlock," said Memory John tightly. "I wanna know _why_."

"Why?" said Sherlock, bewildered. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped." He looked at Memory John's expression. "Oh. 'Why,' as in…" He lifted a finger and pointed it in his friend's direction, who nodded. "I see. Yes. 'Why?' That's a little more difficult to explain."

"I've got all night," said Memory John darkly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea."

"Oh, so, it's your **brother's** plan?" asked Memory John.

Mary pointed at Sherlock. "Oh, he would have needed a confidant."

Sherlock nodded at her in agreement. "Mm-hmm."

Mary trailed off at Memory John's look. "Sorry." She refolded her arms and looked down.

Memory John turned back to Sherlock. "But he was the only one? The only one who knew?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and seemed to force out his words. "Couple of others."

Memory John lowered his head.

Sherlock talked quickly. "It was a very elaborate plan; it had to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities—"

"Who else?" asked Memory John in a despairing whisper. He looked up at Sherlock. "Who else knew?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Who?" demanded Memory John.

"Molly," said Sherlock.

"Molly?" said Memory John angrily.

"John," said Mary softly.

"Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network, and that's all," replied Sherlock.

"Okay." Memory John sat up a little and glanced round at Mary, who gave him a sympathetic smile. He turned to Sherlock again. "Okay. So, just your brother and Molly Hooper and a hundred tramps."

Sherlock chuckled. "No! Twenty-five, at most."

Memory John hurled himself across the table and attempted to throttle Sherlock again.

Everything around them suddenly did that weird DVD skip thing again, and John and Molly were standing now in a small kebob shop. Memory John and Mary stood leaning back against the counter. Sherlock stood in front of Memory John, a bleeding cut on his lower lip.

Memory John took an aggressive step into Sherlock's face. "**One word**, Sherlock. That is **all** I would have needed. **One word** to let me know that you were alive!" He stepped back, breathing heavily.

"I've nearly been in contact so many times, but…" began Sherlock quietly.

Memory John laughed in disbelief.

"…I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet," finished Sherlock.

"What?" said Memory John.

"Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag," said Sherlock.

Memory John stepped closer. "Oh, so, this is _my _fault?"

Mary laughed with disbelief. "Oh, God!"

Memory John was shouting in anger by this point. "Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong? The only one reacting like a human being?"

"_Over_reacting," corrected Sherlock quietly.

"_Over_reacting!" yelled Memory John furiously.

"John!" said Mary.

"_Over_reacting!" yelled Memory John. "So, you fake your own death—"

"Shh!" said Sherlock.

"—and you waltz in here large as bloody life—" Memory John continued shouting.

"Shh!" repeated Sherlock, glancing around at the people watching them in the shop.

Memory John's voice grew quiet again. "—but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!" His voice rose again.

"Shut up, John!" yelled Sherlock. "I don't want _everyone_ knowing I'm still alive!"

"Oh, so, it's still a secret, is it?" shouted Memory John.

"Yes!" shouted Sherlock. "It's still a secret." He looked round at the other customers, his voice lowered once again. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

"Swear to God!" shouted Memory John, looking round at the customers and backing down a little. He blew out a long breath.

Sherlock stepped closer to him and spoke quietly. "London is in danger, John. There's an imminent terrorist attack, and I need your help."

Memory John stared at him in amazement, turning to throw a disbelieving look at Mary. He turned back to Sherlock. "My help?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at Memory John before smiling. "You **have** missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world—"

Memory John grabbed his lapels, reared his head back and then moved in for the kill.

The fog spilled in again.

"_That's_ how he told you he was alive?" Molly asked in disbelief.

"Yeah," John told her.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Molly. "What was he thinking?"

"Exactly!" said John.

The fog cleared, and John and Molly were now standing on a patio in the twilight. A helicopter was hovering in front of them, and Sherlock and Memory John stood facing it as Charles Augustus Magnussen looked over towards them.

"Here we go, Mr. Holmes!" said Magnussen.

Sherlock stepped forward and walked to Memory John's side, speaking loudly over the noise of the helicopter. "To clarify: Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there."

Magnussen looked towards the helicopter. "They're not real. They never have been."

Sherlock nodded, looking down.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away," came Mycroft's voice from the helicopter's speakers.

Magnussen stepped forward, waving his hands calmly. "It's fine! They're harmless!"

Memory John looked over at his friend. "Sherlock, what do we do?" He turned to look at the helicopter again.

"Nothing!" said Magnussen, looking around at them. "There's nothing to be done! Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them!"

While Memory John continued to stare towards the helicopter, Sherlock turned his head and looked at his friend.

"Sorry," said Magnussen. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked away from Memory John, lowering his gaze with a determined look on his face.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," said Mycroft over the speakers, "stand away from that man. Do it now."

Sherlock looked up, speaking loudly. "Oh, do your research." He stepped closer to Memory John, reaching round behind him and into his coat pocket. He then stepped away again and walked forward towards Magnussen. "I'm not a hero."

Magnussen turned to look at him.

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath." Sherlock widened his eyes in a glare. "Merry Christmas!" He raised Memory John's pistol, aimed it at Magnussen's head and fired. He dropped the gun and raised his hands as Memory John recoiled. "Get away from me, John! Stay well back!" He looked back at him.

"Christ, Sherlock!" shouted Memory John in shock, raising his own hands.

Fog surrounded them once more, cutting off the horrible sight in front of them.

"So sad…" mumbled Molly.

"What?" asked John.

Molly looked up at him. "The memories. They're all only bad memories."

John stared at her for a moment before looking back at the fog, and they wondered just what new nightmare they would be forced to witness next.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

John and Molly emerged from the fog and into St. Bart's lab. Memory John was standing in front of them, Sherlock was standing next to him as he typed away on a mobile phone, and Mike Stamford was standing to their left by one of the benches. Mike was smiling smugly at the two of them.

"Afghanistan," said Memory John. "Sorry, how did you know—"

Sherlock looked up as Memory Molly came into the room holding a mug of coffee. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He shut down the phone and handed it back to Memory John while Memory Molly brought the mug over to him. He took it and looked closely at her pale mouth. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Memory Molly smiled awkwardly at him. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really?" said Sherlock. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He turned and walked back to his station.

Molly blushed furiously as she looked away from the scene, but before John could comfort her, the fog immediately surrounded them again.

This time, they found themselves standing on a rooftop in the sunlight. Lying at their feet was a Jim Moriarty with a bullet in his head, blood running across the rooftop. John and Molly turned to see Sherlock stepping towards the edge of the roof.

"Oh, God, not this," muttered John.

John knew it didn't really end the way he had thought it had, but watching it all happen again was something he didn't think he could go through. Nevertheless, he found that he couldn't tear his eyes away as Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge and pulled his mobile phone out.

Sherlock dialed a number and then put it to his ear.

"_Hello?" _came John's voice as though he were speaking directly into John's and Molly's ears.

"John," said Sherlock.

John and Molly stepped up to the ledge and looked down over it to see Memory John running towards St. Bart's entrance in the street below.

"_Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" _asked Memory John.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now," said Sherlock urgently.

"_No, I'm coming in," _said Memory John.

"Just do as I ask!" said Sherlock frantically. "Please."

Memory John turned back and looked around, bewildered. _"Where?"_

Sherlock paused for a moment while Memory John walked back along the road before speaking urgently. "Stop there."

Memory John stopped, glancing around. _"Sherlock?"_

"Okay, look up," Sherlock told him. "I'm on the rooftop."

Memory John turned and looked up at him. _"Oh, God."_

"Look," said John, pointing down below, even though he knew he didn't need to point it out to Molly. After all, she had been involved in the plan; she knew how it had gone down.

People had begun to swarm the pavement below, rolling out an airbag and beginning to inflate it.

"I…I…I can't come down, so we'll…we'll just have to do it like this," said Sherlock.

"_What's going on?" _asked Memory John.

"An apology," said Sherlock, pausing. "It's all true."

"_What?" _asked Memory John.

"Everything they said about me," said Sherlock. "I invented Moriarty." He looked around briefly at his enemy's grinning body lying behind him.

"_Why are you saying this?" _asked Memory John after a long pause.

Sherlock turned back to look down at him, his voice breaking. "I'm a fake."

"_Sherlock…"_

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly…In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"_Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met—the first time we met—you knew all about my sister, right?"_

"Nobody could be that clever."

"_**You**__ could."_

Sherlock laughed and gazed down at his friend, a tear dripping from his chin. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He sniffed quietly. "It's just a trick. Just a magic trick."

Memory John shook his head repeatedly. _"No. All right, stop it now." _He started to walk towards the hospital entrance.

Sherlock's eyes glanced nervously down at the airbag that was waiting for him to land on out of Memory John's view behind the ambulance station. He looked quickly back at Memory John. "No, stay _exactly _where you are. Don't move."

Memory John stopped and backed up, holding his hands up towards Sherlock. _"All right."_

Breathing rapidly, Sherlock had his own hand stretched out towards his friend. "Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice became frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"_Do what?" _asked Memory John.

"This phone call, it's, er…it's my note," Sherlock told him. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

Memory John shook his head, momentarily taking his phone from his ear before raising it again, his voice shaky. _"Leave a note when?"_

"Goodbye, John," said Sherlock.

Memory John shook his head. _"No. Don't."_

Sherlock gazed down at his friend for several seconds and then lowered his arm and dropped the phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself.

Memory John lowered his own phone, screaming. "SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock spread his arms to either side of him and fell forward, plummeting towards the ground as Memory John stared in utter horror. As Sherlock neared the bag, he turned and landed on it. The members of Sherlock's homeless network below sprang into action, rushing towards him as he scrambled off of the airbag. People hurried to lift the deflating airbag as Memory John hurried around the side of the ambulance station.

All of a sudden, a body flew out of one of the lower windows below John and Molly, landing with a thud on the recently vacated pavement. As Sherlock and the airbag reached the left side of the ambulance station, Memory John rounded the right side of the station, staring in horror at what he thought was Sherlock's body. And that's when the cyclist clipped Memory John, sending him to the pavement.

John and Molly quickly found themselves standing on the street below as Sherlock rushed out from his side of the ambulance station. Two people grabbed hold of the body double and dragged it quickly towards the doors of the hospital as Sherlock ran to its place and lay down on the pavement. Someone emptied a bag of blood onto the pavement around Sherlock's head as another person applied blood to Sherlock's face. Sherlock then took a squash ball out of his pocket, shoving it under his shirt and armpit to cut off the pulse.

By now, Memory John had pulled himself to his feet as fake nurses and doctors swarmed over Sherlock. He forced himself towards his best friend, mumbling. "Sherlock. Sherlock…" He finally reached the crowd. "I'm a doctor. Let me come through. Let me come through, please."

Some of the crowd tried to hold him back, but he pushed through them.

"No, he's my friend," said Memory John shakily. "He's my friend. Please." He reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse.

A woman peeled his fingers off as she and another person pulled him away. As he reached towards his friend again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.

"Please, let me just…" said Memory John frantically as his knees gave out.

Suddenly, a shadow passed over the street, causing John and Molly to look up in alarm.

"I don't remember this," said John.

The darkness pulsed around them, almost like lightning.

"It's Sherlock…" muttered Molly.

"Sherlock?" asked John.

"His consciousness," said Molly. "Almost as though he's in pain."

As Memory John slumped to the ground supported by a couple of onlookers, two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back, revealing his blood-stained face and wide, staring eyes.

Memory John groaned in utter despair. "Mm, Jesus, no." He tried to stand, but sank back again. "God, no."

And just like before, the scene froze before switching to a graveyard. Memory John and Mrs. Hudson were standing under a tree in front of a black marble headstone, flowers resting at the base of it. The headstone read simply: "Sherlock Holmes."

"There's all the stuff, all the science equipment," said Mrs. Hudson. "I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She looked at Memory John. "Would you…"

"I can't go back to the flat again, not at the moment," said Memory John.

Mrs. Hudson took his arm sympathetically.

"I'm angry," said Memory John. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying not to break down.

Mrs. Hudson gently patted his arm. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel." She gazed at the smooth black marble. "All the marks on my table. And the noise—firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Yeah," said Memory John.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge," said Mrs. Hudson. "Imagine—keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yes," said Memory John, closing his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson's voice began to break. "And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

Memory John turned to her. "Yeah, listen, I'm not actually that angry, okay?"

"Okay," said Mrs. Hudson, turning away and pulling her arm free of his. "I'll leave you alone to, erm…" her voice broke again, "you know." She walked away, fishing out a tissue to blow her nose.

Memory John looked down at the grave, drawing in a deep breath. He looked back over his shoulder to see that Mrs. Hudson was now out of earshot and then turned back to the grave again. "Um…mm." He pulled himself together a little. "You…you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um…there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human…human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so…there."

Memory John blew out a breath, whimpering slightly. Looking over his shoulder again, he walked over to the headstone and put his fingertips onto the top it. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took a tearful breath. "Okay."

Memory John turned and started to walk away, but only reached the foot of the grave before he turned back again. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing—one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't…be…" his voice broke and filled with tears, "dead. Would you do…just for me, just stop it." He gestured down at the grave. "Stop this."

Memory John sighed, lowered his head and stood there, broken. He lowered his head further, covered his eyes with one hand and wept.

Glancing over across the graveyard, John could see Sherlock standing under a tree, watching Memory John sadly.

The landscape around them darkened once more as Memory John stood there crying over Sherlock's grave. John frowned as something took form next to Sherlock as he stood in the graveyard. John narrowed his eyes, trying to see what the blurry object was, but it was just too unclear.

The fog changed the memory again, dumping them into 221B Baker Street. Greg and Donovan stood in front of the sitting room table as Memory John and Mrs. Hudson stood by the kitchen doorway and watched sadly. Two armed officers attached handcuffs to Sherlock's left wrist as he held his arms out.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," said Greg.

Memory John gestured towards Sherlock while looking at Greg as the officer pulled Sherlock's left hand behind his back in order to cuff his other wrist. "He's not resisting."

"It's all right, John," said Sherlock.

"He's not resisting," Memory John told the officers. He then directed his comments at Sherlock. "No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous."

The memory darkened, and the blurry object reappeared behind Sherlock.

"Molly," said John, pointing at it. "Do you see it?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah. What is that?"

John shook his head. "I don't know."

Greg spoke to the officers cuffing Sherlock. "Get him downstairs now."

The officer spun Sherlock around and marched him out of the door as Mrs. Hudson stood nearby almost in tears.

"You know, you don't have to do—" began Memory John as Sherlock was led out of the door.

Greg got into Memory John's face and pointed at him sternly. "Don't try to interfere, or I shall arrest you, too."

The memory faded as Sherlock left the room, but the next second, the blur was replaced by the fog again. When it cleared, they had not left Baker Street, but sunlight was now filtering through the windows.

Memory John was in his armchair while Sherlock was in his own armchair. The television was showing a news report as they watched it.

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" asked Memory John.

"Nothing," said Sherlock. "All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" suggested Memory John.

"The thought had occurred," said Sherlock.

"So, why's he doing this, then? Playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly. "I think he wants to be distracted."

Memory John laughed humorlessly, got out of his chair and headed towards the kitchen. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

"Sorry, what?"

Memory John turned back, furious, and leaned his hands on the back of his chair. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual human lives. Just—just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" asked Sherlock irritably.

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No." Memory John smiled bitterly. "No." He stared into Sherlock's eyes for a moment.

"I've disappointed you," said Sherlock.

Memory John still smiled angrily as he pointed at him sarcastically. "That's good. That's a good deduction, yeah."

The darkness pulsed around them again as the blurred object reappeared behind Sherlock's armchair, becoming a little clearer.

"Don't make people into heroes, John," Sherlock was saying. "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Memory John stared angrily at him.

"It's a door!" exclaimed Molly, finally able to make out what they were seeing.

"_Go through it!" _Walter told them urgently. _"Go through the door! It will lead you to Mr. Holmes."_

Molly hurried towards it as Sherlock began fussing about on his mobile. She reached a hand forward, but it went right through the door.

"What?" said Molly, looking back at John. "It's not working, Walter."

"But it's getting clearer with each memory it shows up in," John added.

"_Then you will have to keep trying when it appears," _said Walter. _"Keep trying to go through it until it works."_

"Got it," said John, turning back to the memory as the fog encircled them again.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

When John and Molly stepped out of the fog this time, they found themselves surprisingly still wading through it. And it became apparent why soon enough.

They were standing in a church yard, a giant bonfire ablaze next to them with a Guy Fawkes guy planting atop it.

"Oh, God…" moaned John, staring at the bonfire in fright.

"Help!" John's voice called out from inside the bonfire.

"Oh, my God…" breathed Molly.

"Move!" came Sherlock's voice.

John and Molly glanced up to see Sherlock pushing through the crowd as he rushed towards the bonfire, Mary right on his tail.

"Move!" yelled Sherlock. "Move! Move!" He reached the front of the crowd and raced on towards the bonfire. "John!"

Mary ran up behind him. "John! Get out, John!"

Sherlock crouched down, peering through the flames and trying to see where Memory John was while throwing some of the wood aside.

"Help!" Memory John called from the fire.

Sherlock plunged his arms into the inferno, throwing pieces of the bonfire aside and creating a path into it. At last, he was able to reach in and grab Memory John's arms and haul him out. He pulled Memory John across the ground to safety before rolling him over onto his back. Memory John lay there, looking extremely dazed as Sherlock loomed over him.

"John?" said Sherlock. "John!" He gently patted his face.

Mary covered her mouth and cried. "John."

"Hey, John," said Sherlock.

Memory John gazed blankly up at them as he blinked to clear his vision.

Despite the dark night out, darkness descended on all the figures in the yard.

John quickly peered through the darkness as a doorway appeared at the edge of the bonfire. "There!"

He grabbed hold of Molly's hand, and they rushed towards the faint door, but before they got there, the fog cut them off and spun them through the memories.

"Damn!" exclaimed John as they waited for a new memory to pop out at them.

When everything cleared, they found themselves once again on the rooftop of St. Bart's. This time, Moriarty was alive, and he was standing at the edge of the roof with Sherlock hovering over him. John and Molly stepped closer as Sherlock stared down at Moriarty, holding him over the edge of the roof by his lapels.

"You're insane," Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth.

Moriarty blinked at him. "You're just getting that now?"

Sherlock shoved him further back, and Moriarty whooped almost triumphantly and gazed back at him with no fear in his eyes, holding his hands out wide and committing himself to Sherlock's grasp.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," said Moriarty.

Sherlock frowned.

Moriarty's voice became more savage. "Your friends will die if you don't."

The sunlight darkened dramatically around them, and John and Molly gazed around at it. The memory was pulsing, trembling, around them, but the doorway was not appearing yet.

Fear began to creep into Sherlock's eyes. "John."

The memory shuddered around them.

"Not just John," said Moriarty, lowering his voice to a whisper. "_Everyone_."

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock.

Once more, the memory pulsed and shook.

Moriarty gave a delighted smile, still whispering. "_Everyone_."

"Lestrade," said Sherlock.

The darkness returned, nearly blinding them both in its blackness before returning the memory to its previous sunny day. John gazed around the roof frantically, but could see no door whatsoever.

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims," said Moriarty. "There's no stopping them now."

Furiously, Sherlock pulled Moriarty back upwards to safety.

Moriarty stared into his face. "Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock gazed past him, breathing heavily and appearing lost in horror.

Moriarty shook himself free of his grasp and smiled triumphantly. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die…_unless_…"

"—unless I kill myself…complete your story," finished Sherlock.

"There!" exclaimed Molly.

John turned to see that she was pointing at the ledge. They hurried forward, trying to reach it, but just when they did, the memory fogged up again.

"Oh, come on!" shouted John. "Sherlock, you better not be doing this on purpose!"

"At least it's getting clearer," Molly told him as the fog began to clear. "You can see the door better now."

John nodded. "Yeah…Not sure if that's good or bad."

"What choice do we have?" muttered Molly.

Their feet landed on the floor of what appeared to be a tube compartment. John turned in darkened carriage, dreading what he was about to see. Only one memory was important enough for Sherlock to be reliving it in his head.

Sure enough, John and Molly were greeted with the sight of Memory John and Sherlock standing around an open floor panel, which showed a massive bomb.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Molly, glancing between the two men.

Memory John looked up at Sherlock. "We need bomb disposal."

"There may not be time for that now," said Sherlock, looking up at him.

"So, what do we do?" asked Memory John.

Sherlock paused briefly. "I have no idea."

"Well, think of something," said Memory John sternly.

"Why do you think _I _know what to do?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes. You're as clever as it gets."

"Doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?"

"I wasn't in bomb disposal. I'm a bloody doctor."

Sherlock angrily pointed his torch at him. "And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all."

Memory John looked down at the countdown clock currently frozen at 2:30. "Can't—can't we rip the timer off, or something?"

"That would set it off," Sherlock told him.

"You see? You know things!"

Sherlock turned away, sighing.

Suddenly, all the lights in the compartment turned on as the countdown timer on the bomb began to tick down. Sherlock looked around in shock as Memory John groaned.

"Er…" muttered Sherlock.

Memory John was breathing fast. "My God!"

Sherlock paced away from him. "Er…"

"Why didn't you call the police?" groaned Memory John.

"Please just—" began Sherlock.

"Why do you _never_ call the police?" shouted Memory John furiously.

"Well, it's no use now," Sherlock waved off.

"So, you **can't** switch the bomb off? You **can't** switch the bomb off, and you didn't call the police!" Memory John turned away for a moment and then turned back again.

Sherlock looked at him. "Go, John." He pointed towards the driver's cab. "Go now."

"There's no point now, is there, because there's not enough time to get away. And if we don't do this…" Memory John gestured down to the bomb, "other people will die!" He looked down at the clock for a moment and then pointed urgently at Sherlock. "Mind palace."

"Hmm?"

"Use your mind palace!"

"How will that help?"

"You've salted away every fact under the sun!"

"Oh, and you think I've just got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?"

"Yes!" shouted Memory John.

Sherlock thought about it for a second. "Maybe." He brought his fingers up to the sides of his face and screwed his eyes shut.

"Think," said Memory John intensely.

Sherlock lifted his head a little, still concentrating.

"Think," said Memory John softly. "Please think."

Sherlock groaned.

"Think!" said Memory John.

Sherlock's hands came away from his face and flailed while his eyes remained closed, and he continued to make groaning noises. Memory John closed his eyes, shaking his head as he noises got louder, and finally, Sherlock let out a cry and opened his eyes. He breathed heavily for a moment and then lowered his hands and looked at Memory John with a blank but apologetic look on his face.

Memory John stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, my God!" He turned away.

As Sherlock tore his scarf from around his neck and dropped down to fuss with the bomb, the tube darkened around them, and the door appeared in the wall of the compartment.

"Go," said John.

"No, wait, what happened?" asked Molly.

"Later!" John told her, grabbing her hand and going for the door. Once he reached it, he grabbed hold of the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. "Dammit! Sherlock, let us in!"

He didn't know what good it would do, but that was where the door _had_ to lead. There was nowhere else Sherlock could be hiding.

Molly grasped hold of the doorknob, yanking on it. "Sherlock!"

The memory suddenly changed around them once again, pulling the door right out of their hands.

"No, no, wait!" shouted John. "Wait!"

"No!" yelled Molly.

John pulled her into his arms. "It's okay. We'll get it next time. We'll find him."

The scenery came into focus, revealing St. Bart's lab once again. Sherlock was seated at one of the benches in front of a microscope as Memory John stood behind him. A computer was beeping at them.

Memory Molly opened the door and walked in. "Any luck?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Sherlock triumphantly.

Memory Molly came over to look at the screen, and Jim Moriarty, wearing slacks and a t-shirt came in the door and stopped apologetically.

"Oh, sorry," said Moriarty in a London accent. "I didn't—"

"Jim!" said Memory Molly. "Hi!"

Moriarty made as if to leave the room.

Memory Molly stopped him. "Come in! Come in!"

Sherlock looked over at her briefly, running his eyes down her body, and then looked back into the microscope. Moriarty closed the door and walked over to her.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," said Memory Molly.

"Ah!" said Moriarty.

Memory John turned towards them.

Memory Molly looked at him blankly. "And, uh…sorry."

"John Watson," said Memory John. "Hi."

"Hi," said Moriarty.

"God, John, I'm so sorry about that," Molly told him.

"Don't worry about it," John told her. "We'd only met twice. It's all right."

"…told me all about you," Moriarty was saying, gazing admiringly at Sherlock. "You on one of your cases?" He walked closer to Sherlock, forcing Memory John to step out of his way.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs," said Memory Molly. "That's how we met. Office romance." She giggled with Moriarty.

Sherlock glanced briefly round at Moriarty before returning to look into the microscope. "Gay."

Memory Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock raised his head as he realized what he had just done. "Nothing." He smiled round falsely at Moriarty. "Um, hey."

Moriarty smiled admiringly at him. "Hey." Lowering his hand, he knocked a metal dish off the edge of the table and scrambled to pick it up. "Sorry! Sorry!"

Memory John turned away, face-palming, while Sherlock looked irritated.

Moriarty put the dish back on the table and then scratched his arm as he wandered back towards Memory Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" said Memory Molly.

Moriarty stopped beside her, putting a hand on her back, and looked back towards Sherlock. "Bye."

"Bye," said Memory Molly softly.

"It was nice to meet you," Moriarty told Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't respond, continuing to look into his microscope while Moriarty gazed wistfully at him.

Memory John broke the embarrassing silence. "You, too."

Moriarty blinked at him, looking awkward, and then turned and left the room.

Memory Molly waited until the door closed and then turned to Sherlock. "What do you mean, gay? We're together."

Sherlock looked across to her. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," said Memory Molly.

"Nuh, three," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" said Memory John.

"He's _not _gay," said Memory Molly angrily as her voice rose. "Why do you have to spoil—He's not."

Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" said Memory John. "_I _put product in my hair."

"You _wash_ your hair," said Sherlock. "There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" asked Memory Molly.

"Visible above the waistline, _very_ visible," said Sherlock. "Very particular brand." He reached for the metal dish Moriarty had knocked over. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here—" he showed her the card that Moriarty had left under it, "and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Memory Molly stared at him for a moment and then turned and ran out of the room.

The room darkened dangerously as—to both John and Molly's surprise—thunder seemed to rumble throughout the room. When the room came back into focus, Sherlock was frowning at the door.

"Charming," said Memory John. "Well done."

"Just saving her time," said Sherlock. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" said Memory John. "No, no, Sherlock. **That **wasn't kind."

The door shimmered into existence next to the two of them, and John and Molly turned towards it, trying desperately to get into it once again with the same results.

John pounded his fist on the door. "Come on!" He put all his weight into it, raising his fist and bringing it back down again.

The door splintered under his hand, and John and Molly stared at it.

"Break it down…" muttered John. "We have to break it down!"

Just as Molly and John reared back to begin shoving and kicking at the door, the fog swept into the room once again.

"Okay, next time," John told her, nodding as a smile spread on his face. "We'll be able to get it next time."

Molly nodded as she looked back at their surroundings.

They were once more in 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway of the kitchen while Sherlock stood in the door of the flat, leaning heavily on the doorway. Mary was standing by the fireplace as Memory John stood in the middle of the room.

"What is going on?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Bloody good question," said Memory John angrily.

Sherlock looked at Memory John. "The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do."

"Oh, I have a better question," said Memory John. He paced towards Mary, looking angrily into her face. "Is _everyone_ I've ever met a psychopath?"

At the door, Sherlock's eyes lifted upwards as if thinking. "Yes."

Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement, pursing her lips.

"Good that we've settled that," said Sherlock. "Anyway, we—"

Memory John turned towards him furiously. "SHUT UP!"

Mrs. Hudson jumped at the loudness of his cry and put one hand to her mouth. "Oh!"

Memory John stared at Sherlock, his voice lowering from the shout. "And stay shut up, because this is not funny." He gave him an angry, humorless smile. "Not this time."

"I didn't say it was funny," said Sherlock.

Memory John turned his head to look at Mary. "You." He turned to face her, his voice and face full of barely-controlled anger. "What have I ever done…hmm?…my whole life…to deserve you?"

John glanced over at Molly to see her frowning at the scene. Sherlock, John and Mary had never told anyone what had happened between them, what Mary had done. All they knew was that John and Mary had gone through a fight and had gotten over it. No one ever asked what the fight had been about. Needless to say, Molly was about to find out.

Sherlock was now leaning against the door post. "Everything."

Memory John turned to face him, his voice quiet yet angry. "Sherlock, I've told you…" he walked towards him, "shut up."

"Oh, I mean it, seriously," said Sherlock quietly. "Everything. Everything you've ever done is what you did."

"Sherlock, one more word, and you will not need morphine," said Memory John softly and dangerously.

"You were a doctor who went to war," said Sherlock softly.

Memory John's eyes were fixed on him as he struggled to control himself.

"You're a man who could stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie," said Sherlock, still quiet. "Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high." He paused for a moment. "That's me, by the way. Hello." He raised his hand and waved at him before pointing towards Mrs. Hudson. "Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

"It was my _husband's_ cartel," said Mrs. Hudson. "I was just typing."

Sherlock looked at her. "And exotic dancing."

"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been YouTube-ing—" said Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock talked over her. "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people…" his voice became quiet again, "so, is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

Memory John grimaced briefly and with his eyes still fixed on Sherlock, he pointed towards his wife, his voice full of suppressed tears. "But she wasn't supposed to be like that."

Mrs. Hudson looked across to Mary in shock as Mary lowered her head.

Memory John pointed again across the room, his voice a little stronger. "Why is she like that?"

Sherlock looked away towards the sofa for several seconds before looking directly into John's eyes. "Because you chose her."

Memory John stared back at him, his face unreadable. Sherlock held his gaze.

Memory John turned away. "Why is everything…" he walked towards the table, holding up a questioning hand and shrugging, "_always_…" his voice rose to a shout, "MY FAULT?" He furiously kicked the small table beside Sherlock's chair across the floor.

The room darkened at the strength of John's anger.

Mrs. Hudson jumped as the others did as well. "Oh, the neighbors!" She hurried away.

Memory John turned to face Mary again, breathing heavily.

"John, listen," said Sherlock quietly. "Be calm and answer me. What is she?"

Memory John's gaze was fixed on Mary. "My lying wife?"

"No," said Sherlock. "What is she?"

Memory John was still staring at Mary. "And the woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her?"

Mary gazed back at him.

"No," said Sherlock. "Not in this flat, not in this room. Right here, right now, what is she?"

Memory John had a small, fixed, humorless smile on his face as he stared at Mary, his look murderous. After a long moment, he sniffed deeply and harshly. "Okay." He turned briefly towards Sherlock and then back to Mary. "Your way." He looked at Mary for another second and then half-turned to Sherlock. "Always your way."

Sherlock lowered his head and looked away.

Memory John turned, clearing his throat, and then picked up one of the dining chairs and put it down facing the fireplace. He looked at Mary. "Sit."

"Why?" asked Mary.

Memory John leaned towards her while pointing down to the chair. "Because that's where they sit." He straightened up, still speaking in the same tight voice. "The people who come in here with their stories, the clients—that's all you are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk…" he gestured towards the armchairs, "and this is where we sit and listen. Then we decide if we want you or not."

As Memory John walked over to his chair and sat, John watched as Sherlock moved from the doorway and towards his own chair. As he left the doorway, a door appeared there.

"Molly!" John shouted, rushing towards the door.

Molly followed him as he pounded and kicked at the door. John put everything he had into breaking that door down. It was beginning to splinter under their assault, and John pushed Molly away a little.

"Stand back," John told her.

He shoved forward, putting his shoulder into it and yelling out when the door collapsed underneath him and sent him into pitch blackness.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

**And the big conclusion! Well, not really. Still have a few more chapters to go, but I know you were all waiting for this one!**

* * *

Molly hurried in after John, not wanting to get separated from him. As John straightened up, they looked around at the dark, plain room. Molly looked behind them to see that the broken door had vanished.

"_There __**is**__ no Moriarty. There never has been."_

Molly and John spun around to see Sherlock standing in front of a window, staring through it.

"_What are you talking about?" said John's voice._

Not knowing what to expect, Molly slowly approached the detective as he stood there.

"_Look him up," said the woman's voice again. "Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."_

Molly circled around to Sherlock's left as John stepped up to his right. Sherlock made no indication that he had noticed them; he just kept staring through the window. Molly looked towards it, seeing the sitting room of a flat on the other side. The large window took up about half the wall, almost like the window of an interrogation room as it gave them an excellent view of the scene. Sherlock, John and Kitty Reilly stood in the flat, facing down Jim Moriarty.

_Moriarty held his hands up as he turned to John. "Dr. Watson, I know you're a good man." He backed up into the wall, terrified. "Don't…don't h…don't hurt me."_

_John pointed at him furiously, screaming. "No, you are Moriarty!" He turned his head briefly and yelled at Kitty. "He's Moriarty!" He turned back to him. "We've __**met**__, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"_

Molly glanced at Sherlock, trying to catch his eyes. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond in any way. It looked like he didn't even know that they were there. He only continued to stare at the memory in front of him.

"_I'm sorry," said Moriarty. "I'm sorry." He gestured towards Sherlock. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor…"_

"Sherlock, can you hear us?" John tried, stepping in front of him.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the window, completely oblivious to John.

John glanced at Molly and gave her a shrug, going back to Sherlock's side. "I don't know what to do. He's not listening." He glanced over at the memory. "It's like he's trapped in these memories."

Molly glanced at the window.

"…_Jim Moriarty, your nemesis," Kitty was saying._

"_Invented him?" said John, upset._

"_Mm-hmm," said Kitty. "Invented all the crimes, actually, and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."_

"_Oh, don't be ridiculous!" shouted John._

Molly glanced back at Sherlock, narrowing her eyes at his face as Kitty made her rebuttal.

"_Look, for God's sake, this man was on __**trial**__!" shouted John._

"_Yes, and you paid him, paid him to take the rap," said Kitty, looking at Sherlock._

Sherlock flinched. Molly's eyes widened.

"_Promised you'd rig the jury," said Kitty._

Kitty went on with her condescending remarks about how Sherlock had hired Richard Brook to be Jim Moriarty, but it got no reaction from Sherlock. It wasn't until John spoke that she saw anything.

"_So-so, this is the story that you're gonna publish," John told Kitty. "The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?"_

Sherlock flinched yet again, but would not take his eyes off of the memories, forcing himself to watch.

"What do we—" began John.

Molly held her hand up silently, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. "Sherlock…why are you punishing yourself?"

There was no immediate reaction from Sherlock, but out of the corner of her eye, Molly watched as John looked at her in surprise before looking back at Sherlock. For what felt like an eternity, they watched Sherlock as he stood unmovable. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.

"I deserve it…" Sherlock responded absently, still not entirely conscious of their presence.

Molly shared a triumphant smile with John as she looked back up at Sherlock. "Why?"

Again, another pause before his answer. "I hurt the ones I care for…"

There was then the equivalent of an explosion beyond the window before scene after scene from his life flashed in front of them.

"_Don't…be…dead—"_

"_So, you fake your own death—"_

"_How _dare_ you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with!"_

"_I'll burn the _heart_ out of you!"_

"_You always say such horrible things."_

"_Why do you always have to spoil—"_

"_She's __**dying**__…you __**machine**__!"_

"Sherlock," Molly said gently. "You do not hurt everyone."

Sherlock began frantically shaking his head, forcing his eyes closed. "I'm here because I deserve it. If I stay here, I can't hurt them."

"No, Sherlock—" began John.

"All I bring is pain…" muttered Sherlock, staring with red, tear-filled eyes at the bad memories as they flashed by.

Molly looked sadly over at John before placing her hand on Sherlock's arm. "No, you don't, Sherlock."

Catching on to what Molly was getting at, John leaned in towards him. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock gave a frown, looking down at the floor as the memories slowed and then disappeared.

"Where would she be if it weren't for you?" said John gently. "Probably in prison as an accomplice in drug trafficking." He paused a moment to let that sink in. "But because of you, she has a life. She **is** alive."

"_It's a disgrace…"_

Sherlock's eyes shot up to the window as Molly's and John's gazes went there as well.

_Mrs. Hudson was bringing in a plate of breakfast to the table in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock and John sat as Mycroft stood by the fireplace._

"…_sending your little brother into danger like that," continued Mrs. Hudson. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."_

"_Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson," said Mycroft._

_Sherlock's head shot up, glaring furiously at his brother. "MYCROFT!"_

_John had also looked up, equally furious as he let out his own yell. Mrs. Hudson was also staring in shock at Mycroft._

_Mycroft looked at their angry faces glaring at him. He then cringed and looked contritely at Mrs. Hudson. "Apologies."_

"_Thank you," said Mrs. Hudson as they all went back to what they were doing._

_Sherlock glanced in her direction. "Though, do, in fact, shut up."_

Molly watched as Sherlock's mouth started to quirk a little at the side. She looked back as a new memory started.

"_Rest assured, Mycroft," said Sherlock as he sat in his armchair at 221B. "Whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre."_

_Mrs. Hudson carried a tray of tea things into the room, giving her customary greeting._

"_Speaking of which…" muttered Mycroft by the fireplace._

_Sherlock smiled._

_Mrs. Hudson put the tray on the table, a huge smile on her face. "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Him, sitting in his chair again!" She looked at Mycroft. "Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr. Holmes?"_

"_I can barely contain myself," said Mycroft in mock enthusiasm._

"_Oh, he really can, you know," said Sherlock._

"_He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that," said Mrs. Hudson as she began to leave._

"_Sorry, which of us?" asked Mycroft._

_Mrs. Hudson paused on her way out. "Both of you." She strode out the door._

That familiar fog swept through the room once again as a new memory started.

_Mrs. Hudson and John sat at the kitchen table of 221A as Sherlock came in the back door, wiping his feet on the doormat. Mrs. Hudson appeared to be shaken._

"_She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," said John. "We need to look after her."_

"_No," said Mrs. Hudson._

"_Of course, but she's fine," said Sherlock._

"_No, she's not," said John. "Look at her."_

_Sherlock opened the fridge door and peered inside before picking something up._

"_She's got to take some time away from Baker Street," said John. "She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders."_

_Kicking the fridge door shut, Sherlock frowned at John and bit into the mince pie. "Don't be absurd."_

"_She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone," said John. "Where is it, anyway?"_

"_Safest place I know," said Sherlock, wiping crumbs from his mouth. He looked down at the landlady._

_Mrs. Hudson reached down inside her top and pulled the phone out of her bra, handing it to Sherlock. "You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot." She laughed briefly. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."_

_Sherlock tossed it into the air before pocketing it. "Thank you." He looked at John. "Shame on you, John Watson."_

"_Shame on __**me**__?" asked John._

"_Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?" said Sherlock, putting a protective arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. "England would fall."_

_Mrs. Hudson laughed and stroked his hand as he chuckled._

A smile had begun to form on Sherlock's face, so Molly decided to jump back in.

"And Lestrade?" said Molly. "He'd still be stuck as a Sergeant if it weren't for you. You help him solve his cases, and you never take the credit, do you?"

"_So, she's German?" asked Greg._

Molly glanced up to see the new memory as John, Sherlock and Greg stood in an old room of an abandoned building, gathered around a dead woman in pink.

_Sherlock looked through his phone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night…" he smiled smugly, "before returning home to Cardiff." He pocketed his phone. "So far, so obvious."_

"_Sorry, obvious?" asked John._

"_What about the message, though?" asked Greg._

_Sherlock looked at John. "Dr. Watson, what do you think?"_

"_Of the message?" asked John._

"_Of the body," said Sherlock. "You're a medical man."_

"_Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," said Greg._

"_They won't work with me," said Sherlock._

"_I'm breaking every rule letting __**you**__ in here," said Greg._

"_Yes, because you need me," Sherlock told him._

_Greg stared at him for a moment and then lowered his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."_

The fog swirled in as the memory changed.

_Sherlock and Greg stood just behind an ambulance at a crime scene, Sherlock walking away from him._

"_Where're you going?" asked Greg._

"_I just need to talk about the-the rent," said Sherlock._

"_But I've still got questions for you," said Greg._

_Sherlock turned back to him in irritation. "Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He brandished said blanket to prove it._

"_Sherlock!" said Greg._

"_And I just caught you a serial killer…more or less," said Sherlock._

The memory changed yet again.

_Greg walked through a parking garage, stopping to light a cigarette. Just as he raised the lighter to the cigarette, Sherlock spoke up from the shadows._

"_Those things'll kill you."_

_Greg froze for a long moment before lowering the lighter. "Ooh, you bastard!" He took the cigarette out of his mouth._

_Sherlock walked towards him out of the darkness. "It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."_

"_Greg!" he corrected._

"_Greg," said Sherlock._

_Greg stared at him for a long moment. Grimacing, he lunged towards Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock groaned, but tolerated the affection._

Despite the grimace Sherlock wore in the memory, Molly was pleased to see a fond smile on her Sherlock's face.

"And what about John?" John spoke up. "By now, he would have drowned in his aimless, meaningless life. **You** saved him. You stepped in and gave him purpose again."

Molly caught John's eyes, giving him a small smile.

"_You're a doctor."_

Molly looked up to see that 221B was once again behind the glass.

_John looked up to see Sherlock standing at the flat's door._

"_In fact, you're an Army doctor," Sherlock continued._

"_Yes," said John, planting his cane on the floor and standing from his armchair._

_Sherlock stepped towards him. "Any good?"_

"_**Very **__good," answered John._

"_Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."_

"_Mm, yes."_

"_Bit of trouble, too, I bet."_

"_Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."_

_Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "Wanna see some more?"_

"_Oh, God, yes," John replied before following Sherlock out the door._

The memory shifted into a new one.

_Sherlock stood at the door of 221B, putting on his greatcoat. "Well?"_

"_Well, what?" asked John from his seat in the armchair._

"_Well, you could just sit there and watch telly," said Sherlock._

"_What, you want me to come with you?" asked John._

"_I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so…"_

_John smiled briefly._

"_Problem?" asked Sherlock._

"_Yeah, Sergeant Donovan," said John._

_Sherlock looked away in exasperation. "What about her?"_

"_She said…you get off on this," said John. "You enjoy it."_

"_And I said 'dangerous,'…and here you are," said Sherlock nonchalantly. He immediately turned and walked out of the door._

_John sat there thoughtfully for a few seconds and then almost angrily leaned into his cane to push himself to his feet and head after him. "Damn it!"_

The memory changed again.

_Sherlock and John traipsed into the hallway on the ground floor of 221B, John hanging his jacket on the wall while Sherlock draped his coat over the bottom of the bannisters._

"_Okay, that was ridiculous," gasped John as he leaned against the wall next to Sherlock, trying to catch his breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."_

"_And you invaded Afghanistan," said Sherlock._

_John giggled as Sherlock also began to laugh. "That wasn't just me."_

_Sherlock chuckled._

"_Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" asked John._

_Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he tried to catch his breath as well. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."_

"_So, what were we doing there?" asked John._

_Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time." He looked at John. "And proving a point."_

"_What point?"_

"_You." Sherlock turned his head and called loudly towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson __**will**__ take the room upstairs."_

"_Says who?"_

_Sherlock looked towards the front door. "Says the man at the door."_

_John turned his head towards it just as someone knocked on it. He turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise as Sherlock smiled. John stared at him for a moment before heading to answer the door, finding Angelo from the restaurant standing there._

"_Sherlock texted me," Angelo told him, smiling as he held up John's cane. "He said you forgot this."_

_John stared at the cane in surprise, taking it. "Ah." He turned and looked down the hall at Sherlock, who grinned at him._

A new memory…

_John and Sherlock were walking away from a crime scene._

"_You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" said John._

_Sherlock stopped and turned to him. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."_

"_No, you didn't," said John. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

"_Why would I do that?" asked Sherlock._

"_Because you're an idiot," John told him._

_Sherlock smiled at him._

A new memory…

_Sherlock stood in a church graveyard as John turned and walked away from him._

_Sherlock turned and called after him. "Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it."_

_John stopped and turned back to face him._

"_I don't have friends," Sherlock told him, biting his lip briefly. "I've just got one."_

Another memory…

_John and Sherlock were standing next to a private jet on an airfield._

"_John, there's something…I should say," said Sherlock. "I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." He hesitated for a long time and then drew a deep breath and looked at John. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."_

_John turned away, giggling silently as Sherlock smiled at him. John turned back, still smiling. "It's not."_

_Sherlock shrugged. "It was worth a try."_

"_We're not naming our daughter after you," said John._

"_I think it could work," said Sherlock._

_John chuckled._

A chuckle suddenly erupted from Sherlock, drawing Molly's and John's attention. They smiled at each other and looked back at the window as it changed again.

_Sherlock stood at the head table of John and Mary's wedding reception, his mobile in hand. He was looking down at John and Mary seated next to him. Mary was shaking her head slightly in disapproval at whatever he had just said._

"_On second thoughts, I probably should have told you about the Elephant in the Room," said Sherlock. "However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that's what made me special—quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that; I should know. He's saved mine so many times and in so many ways."_

_Sherlock held up his phone. "This blog is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures…" he smiled as the guests chuckled, "of murder, mystery and mayhem. But from now on, there's a new story—a bigger adventure." He looked down at the newlyweds, who smiled happily._

The scene then seemed to jump to another point in the reception. Sherlock was still standing at the head table for his speech, but he now had a grim look on his face and the note cards in hand instead of the mobile.

"_The point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet," said Sherlock. He looked at the vicar, "I am dismissive of the virtuous…" he turned to a bridesmaid, Janine, next to him, "unaware of the beautiful…" he turned to Mary and John, "and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So, if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."_

_The guests had fallen silent._

"_Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing," continued Sherlock._

_Mary smiled proudly at her husband._

"_John, I am a ridiculous man," said Sherlock, "redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion." He looked down for a moment and smiled. "Actually, now I can."_

_The guests murmured again as John and Mary smiled._

"_Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable," said Sherlock. "John, you have endured war and injury and tragic loss—" he leaned closer to him, "so sorry again about that last one—" he straightened again, "so know this: today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."_

The memory changed yet again.

_John was standing in the tube compartment as Sherlock knelt next to the bomb, which was counting down._

_John turned back to him. "Look, I find it difficult."_

_Sherlock nodded, his head lowered._

"_I find it difficult, this sort of stuff," said John._

_Sherlock looked up at him. "I know."_

_John blew out a breath, lowering his head, and then straightened up and looked at Sherlock. "You were the best and the wisest man…that I have ever known."_

_Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes wide and tear-filled._

_John sighed, lowering his head before raising it once more. "Yes, of _course_ I forgive you."_

_Sherlock stared at him as John met his eyes. John then took a deep breath, closed his eyes and braced himself. He gripped the handrail, blowing out a long breath. Sherlock's head was lowered while his body shook with what seemed to be sobs. John screwed his eyes even more tightly closed. Sherlock lowered his hand and turned his head away and then turned back, laughing. John opened his eyes and looked across to him as Sherlock giggled. Staring at him, John stepped forward and looked down at the countdown clock on the bomb. Its timer had frozen._

_John turned away in disbelief. "You—"_

_Sherlock stood up, tears of mirth streaming down his face as he laughed. "Oh, your face!"_

"—_**utter**__—" continued John._

"_Your face!" exclaimed Sherlock._

"_You—"_

_Sherlock grinned. "I totally had you."_

"_You __**cock**__! I knew it! I knew it! You—"_

"_Oh, those things you said—such sweet things! I never knew you cared."_

_John glared at him. "I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this—"_

_Sherlock grinned as he held up two fingers in a salute. "Scout's honor."_

"—_to _anyone_. YOU KNEW!" shouted John._

_Sherlock squatted down next to the bomb._

"_You knew how to turn it off!" shouted John._

"_There's an off switch," said Sherlock._

"_What?"_

"_There's always an off switch," said Sherlock as John bent down to look at it. Sherlock stood again. "Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there's an off switch."_

"_So, why did you let me go through all that?" asked John tightly._

"_I didn't lie altogether. I've absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off." Sherlock chuckled and wiped the tears off his face._

_John spotted a couple cops approaching along the tunnel, and he pointed at them. "And you did call the police."_

"_Course I called the police."_

"_I'm definitely gonna kill you."_

"_Oh, please, killing me. That's so two years ago." Sherlock quirked a smile before turning and leaving._

_John let out a laugh._

Sherlock chuckled again, a nostalgic smile spreading on his face.

"What about Molly?" Molly asked him. "You have given her the confidence and courage she has always wanted. You've helped her become a better woman." She hesitated, not able to believe she was about to say this, but it was certainly nothing he didn't already know. "It's her love for you that keeps her going. Even if you'll never return it…you're still the most important person in her life."

Molly tried to ignore the sorrowful look on John's face. This was not about her; it was all about Sherlock.

"_So…bad day, was it?" asked Molly._

Their attention was drawn to the window once again.

_Sherlock pulled out his notebook and began writing in it as he stood next to a morgue table with a body on it. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."_

"_Listen, I was wondering," said Molly on the other side of the table. "Maybe later, when you're finished—"_

_Sherlock had glanced across to her, doing a double-take and frowning. "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."_

"_I, er, I refreshed it a bit," said Molly nervously, smiling at him flirtatiously._

_Sherlock gave her a long, oblivious look and went back to writing. "Sorry, you were saying?"_

_Molly gazed at him intently. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."_

_Sherlock put his notebook away. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He turned and left the room._

A new memory began…

_Sherlock sat at one of the benches of the lab as Molly stood next to him. He was busy with his microscope._

"_You're a bit like my dad," said Molly. "He's dead." She closed her eyes, embarrassed. "No, sorry."_

"_Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation," said Sherlock. "It's really not your area."_

_Molly cringed, but continued. "When he was…dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely, except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."_

"_Molly…" said Sherlock sternly._

"_You look sad…" Molly glanced towards John, "when you think he can't see you."_

_Sherlock's eyes lifted from the microscope and drifted towards John, who was looking through papers on the other side of the lab. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Molly._

"_Are you okay?" Molly asked. She interrupted before he could say anything. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."_

"_You can see me," replied Sherlock._

"_I don't count," Molly immediately responded._

_Sherlock blinked at her in surprise._

"_What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need—anything at all—you can have me." Molly flinched and looked away briefly. "No, I just mean…I mean, if there's anything you need…" She shook her head. "It's fine." She turned away._

Another memory…

_Molly walked across the darkened lab, sighing tiredly. She reached for the door handle to leave._

"_You're wrong, you know," said Sherlock._

_Molly gasped and jumped, spinning towards him._

_Sherlock was standing in the middle of the lab, faced away from her. "You __**do**__ count. You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." He turned his head towards her. "But you were right. I'm not okay."_

"_Tell me what's wrong," said Molly._

_Sherlock slowly walked towards her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."_

"_What do you need?" asked Molly._

_Sherlock still slowly approached her. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that _I _think I am—would you still want to help me?"_

_Molly gazed up at him as he stopped. "What do you need?"_

_Sherlock stepped even closer, his expression intense. "You."_

A new memory…

_Sherlock stared down in shock at the tag on Molly's gift._

_Molly gasped quietly. "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always_." She fought back tears._

_Sherlock turned to walk away, but immediately stopped and turned back. "I am sorry. Forgive me."_

_John looked up, startled and amazed at the first apology he had ever heard come from him._

_Sherlock stepped closer to Molly. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He leaned forward and gently kissed her on the cheek._

The memory seemed to suddenly slow, causing the kiss to last for several moments before a new one began.

_Sherlock headed down a staircase in a building of flats._

"_Sherlock?" asked Molly behind him._

"_Hmm?" Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned back to her._

"_What was today about?" asked Molly._

"_Saying thank you," said Sherlock._

"_For what?" asked Molly._

"_Everything you did for me."_

"_It's okay. It was my pleasure." Molly reached the bottom of the stairs and started towards the door._

"_No, I mean it," said Sherlock._

_Molly turned back. "I don't mean 'pleasure.' I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to."_

_Sherlock stepped closer, speaking softly. "Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."_

_Sherlock smiled down at her. "I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."_

"_No?" asked Molly._

"_No," said Sherlock, stepping closer and giving her a beautiful smile. He leaned down and kissed her cheek._

Again, the memory slowed as it focused on the kiss. The next moment, the window was filled with Molly's smiling face, practically glowing as her voice spoke.

"_Maybe it's just my type."_

Molly felt herself blush as John smiled a little and looked away. Molly glanced up at Sherlock's face to see something she had never seen before there. If she didn't know any better, she would say it was love.

Just as quickly, the warm smile vanished as he stared at the window fogging over.

"But then, why am I here?" muttered Sherlock. "If I don't belong here, why can't I get out?"

John turned back to him. "Because you're letting it hold you here. All the bad memories, the pain, the fear—you're letting it win. And if there is one thing Sherlock Holmes is not, it's scared."

Sherlock frowned. "But the pain…"

"_Say you're sorry!"_

"_You always say such horrible things—"_

"_Your mouth's too small now—"_

"_Clean?" said Molly, stepping over in front of Sherlock._

With each slap in the memory, Sherlock himself flinched at it.

"I'll hurt her…" muttered Sherlock.

Molly's eyes widened considerably. He hadn't said _them_ this time. No, it had been _her_. I'll hurt _her_.

"_Why do you have to spoil—"_

"_How _dare_ you—"_

Molly reached forward, taking his hand and smiling when Sherlock's hand gave her hand a light squeeze. "So, stop it." She looked at the window, where everyone was gathered for the Christmas party in Baker Street. "Go stop the pain."

Sherlock stared at the window as the John in the memory began telling everyone about his sister being off the booze.

"_Nope," said Sherlock._

_John glared at him. "Shut up, Sherlock."_

Sherlock's gaze hardened as his other self began the start of his deduction about Molly. He let go of Molly's hand and strode forward, gliding through the window as if it wasn't there.

* * *

**Oh, you know I'm a sucker for a cliffhanger!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

**Okay, guys, I will probably not have a new chapter up for at least a week. I am currently trying to move. Thankfully, I've had this one written up for a while. I hope to get back to writing as soon as I have unpacked.**

* * *

Molly followed Sherlock into the memory as John did the same. They stood in front of the fireplace as Sherlock stepped towards his memory self sitting at the table.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," said Memory Sherlock as he looked over at Memory Molly.

"Take a day off," Memory John muttered quietly in exasperation.

Greg took a glass across to the table and put it down near Memory Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink."

"Oh, come on," said Memory Sherlock. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He stood up and walked towards Memory Molly.

Sherlock's arm rose as though to stop him, but then lowered almost in defeat.

_Come on, Sherlock, _Molly thought at him. _You can do it._

She knew the two of them couldn't do anything more to help; they were just observers. If Sherlock wanted out, he would have to do it himself.

Memory Sherlock looked at the other presents, which weren't so carefully wrapped. "It's for someone special, then." He picked up the well-wrapped red present.

Sherlock began walking towards himself, his gaze locked on Memory Molly as she began to fidget nervously. He came to a stop in between them, still staring sadly at her.

Molly stepped up behind her memory self, looking into Sherlock's face.

"The shade of red echoes her lipstick—either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage," continued Memory Sherlock.

Memory Molly was glancing from the gift and up to Memory Sherlock's face, knowing he was going to figure it out any second and humiliate her. Sherlock's gaze was slowly hardening as Memory Molly grew more and more nervous.

"Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind," said Memory Sherlock almost mockingly.

Sherlock flinched as anger filled his face, not taking his eyes off the hurt his memory self was causing Memory Molly. "Stop it…"

The command had been barely above a whisper, but Molly had heard how his voice had shaken.

"The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all."

Sherlock slid his eyes over to Memory Sherlock, all but glaring at him. When he spoke this time, his voice was stronger and held a hard edge to it. "Stop."

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn."

"Stop it," Sherlock demanded a little louder, turning to face Memory Sherlock a little more. He was now clenching his fists at his sides.

"And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing." Memory Sherlock smiled smugly across to Memory John and Jeanette, starting to turn over the gift tag attached to the present. "Obviously trying to compensate—"

"I said stop it!" shouted Sherlock.

Molly jumped a little in shock as Sherlock suddenly reared his arm back and swung it forward into Memory Sherlock's face. The punch never landed. Sherlock's fist and arm swept straight through Memory Sherlock as he and the other people in the memory suddenly vanished.

Sherlock caught his balance and turned, looking around the flat for the others. He came to a stop as he faced Molly, staring at her almost in shock. "Molly?"

Molly smiled at him, relieved that he could finally see them. "Hi, Sherlock."

What happened next, none of them could have predicted. Sherlock suddenly surged forward, sliding his hands into Molly's hair on either side of her head and pulling her into a kiss. Molly stood stunned with wide eyes for a moment before she melted into the kiss, sliding her arms around his back. Sherlock's hands combed through her hair before his own arms slid down around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

The kiss had started out desperate and passionate, but it was slowly dwindling down to gentle and loving. Sherlock planted one last languid kiss to her lips before pulling back and gazing down into her face. Molly smiled up at him as he raised a hand to the side of her face, cradling it.

"_Ahem_."

Molly's eyes widened as a sheepish smile appeared on her face. She had completely forgotten that John was standing there, watching the whole thing.

Sherlock, on the other hand, froze and narrowed his eyes in confusion. He turned his head to frown over at his friend. "John?"

John was smirking at Sherlock, who still had his arms wrapped around Molly. "Yeah."

Sherlock's eyes swept down to John's shoes, traveling up to his face. He then stepped back a little from Molly, placing his hands on her shoulders. He narrowed his eyes as he looked into her own. After a moment, he tilted his head a little as his eyes widened.

"You're really here," Sherlock muttered.

Molly frowned. "Yeah…"

"No, I mean, you're not a memory, nor are you my mind palace's versions of you," Sherlock explained before looking over at John. "It's really you."

John nodded. "Yeah, it's really us."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "That doesn't make any sense. How could you have—" He broke off mid-thought as he stared at John before glancing back at Molly. He seemed to just now understand what he had done. His mortified eyes went to the floor as he started to let go of her. "Molly, I—"

Molly latched onto his hands, keeping them on her shoulders. "Don't you dare apologize for that, Sherlock Holmes." She gave him a stern, yet loving look.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before smiling back. He then glanced back at John, his gaze shifting nervously towards Molly and back. "Um…John, I—"

John waved a hand at him. "Don't sweat it, mate. I've seen this coming for a while now."

Sherlock frowned at him. "You have?" He frowned down at the floor in thought. "Why didn't I?"

"Because you're an idiot," John told him.

Sherlock looked back up at him, sharing a smile before turning serious again. "So, how are you two in my head? That isn't—"

"In a minute, Sherlock," John quickly told him, raising his head as if to address the ceiling. "Walter, how much time do we have?"

Sherlock frowned at John's odd behavior.

"_It is 10:08 in the morning, Thursday," _Walter answered.

John's head lowered once more. "Which would make it 3:00 p.m. in London. Sherlock, this is very important—"

"Who were you talking to?" Sherlock interrupted as he released Molly, having not been able to hear Walter's response. "What's—"

"Later, Sherlock," John demanded, stepping closer. "Do you remember the case you were working when you fell into a coma?"

Sherlock frowned, about to open his mouth and ask yet more questions.

Molly placed a hand on his arm. "Please, Sherlock, this is important. What's the last thing you remember?"

Sherlock looked down into her eyes, seeing the urgency there. He frowned in concentration, his eyes staring off into space. After a moment, the flat faded around the three of them, and they found themselves in a street.

Memory Sherlock, wearing his Belstaff close around him, was walking down the pavement. As a dodgy man several hundred yards ahead of him turned down an alley, Memory Sherlock quickened his pace. Before long, he had reached the same alley, and he peered down it before entering as well.

John, Molly and Sherlock followed him into the alley, watching as the man he had been following suddenly pounced. Memory Sherlock blocked the blow before shoving him away to give himself room to fight back.

The man then got a good look at Memory Sherlock's face. His own twisted in rage. "You!"

Memory Sherlock darted forward the same time that the man did. He parried the man's punch, landing his own. The two exchanged a couple blows before the man gave a shout of rage and threw the detective towards the brick wall of the alley. Memory Sherlock tried to turn to catch himself, but the left side of his head hit the corner of a skip.

Darkness instantly swept in around them, and the flat at Baker Street appeared once more.

"That's the last thing I remember before being trapped here," Sherlock told them.

"Do you remember where the bomb is?" asked John. "Your note said it was set to go off tomorrow—er, Friday." He corrected himself, remembering Sherlock had not heard Walter tell them it was Thursday.

"Er…" Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth before he closed his eyes and brought his hands to his temples. He concentrated a moment, scrunching his eyes shut, before he opened them again. "Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5A in the storage closet of the departure lounge."

John nodded, his gaze moving upwards once again. "Walter, the bomb is in Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5A in the departure lounge storage closet."

There was an agonizing moment of silence where Molly feared that they had not heard John, but then Walter's voice spoke.

"_The Detective Inspector is calling his team. He wants to tell Mr. Holmes, 'thank you.'"_

John and Molly breathed out a sigh of relief. They now had at least nine hours to evacuate the airport and deactivate the bomb.

"Thanks, Walter," Molly said, looking back to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned at the two of them. "All right, who are you two talking to and how did you get in my head?"

"When we found out you may not wake up before the bomb went off, we knew that the only information about it was now trapped in your head," Molly explained.

Sherlock nodded, looking over at John. "They stole the tapes?"

John nodded. "Not before destroying the flat. You may need a new computer." His eyes shifted nervously to the floor and back.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What else?"

John stared at him, seemingly holding his breath.

"What else, John?" Sherlock demanded.

John closed his eyes and turned his head away from him.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed once again. "The violin."

John nodded, eyes still trained on the wall.

"Damn," Sherlock bit off, clenching his jaw. "Tell me they're still alive so I can kill them."

"Actually, we don't know," John told him, looking back at him. "We haven't been able to find them."

"Jacobs is at The Bloomsbury Palace," Sherlock told them. "Don't know which room, but I recognized the scent of the hotel's shampoo."

Molly chuckled at the fact that Sherlock had an encyclopedia of London's hotel amenities catalogued in his head. "Walter, tell Greg to check The Bloomsbury Palace for Michael Jacobs."

"_All right," _Walter replied.

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask yet again who Walter was, but Molly held up her hand.

"We're getting there, Sherlock," Molly told him.

"Anyway, that's when Mycroft told us about this scientist in Boston that could help," John explained.

"Dr. Walter Bishop?" asked Sherlock.

John frowned. "Yeah, actually."

Sherlock nodded. "I've read a few of his articles from his days at Harvard twenty years ago. I've also kept up with a few of his recent cases."

John shook his head with a smile. "I don't even wanna know how you got your hands on FBI files."

"So, he performed a consciousness synchronization," Sherlock stated.

"Yes," Molly replied. "That's why we're talking to him. He can hear us, but not you."

Sherlock nodded, looking over at Molly with an awkward glance at John.

John cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. "I think I'm gonna go see how Lestrade is coming along with the bomb."

Sherlock nodded again. "Excellent idea, John."

John smiled at Sherlock. "See you on the other side." He then closed his eyes and concentrated.

* * *

John opened his eyes to the darkness of the inside of the tank. The next moment, the doors opened, letting in the light. John raised a hand to shield his eyes.

"You okay, John?" asked Peter from outside the tank.

John nodded as his eyes slowly adjusted to the light. "Yeah. How's Greg doing?"

Peter looked up past the tank where John couldn't see. "His team is evacuating the airport now."

John sighed in relief. "Thank God." He pulled himself up towards the opening of the tank, letting Peter help him out. "How's he doing?"

Peter handed him a towel before glancing over at Sherlock lying in between the tanks, the doors of which were still closed on Molly's. "Better. At least, according to Walter. I can't see much difference in the readouts. Walter says that there was a change in his brainwaves about fifteen minutes ago."

John nodded as he stepped towards the stretcher. "That was when Sherlock finally broke out of the memories."

He stared down at Sherlock, marveling at the fact that Molly was in there at that very moment with him.

There came a laugh and a voice from nearby.

"_No."_

John glanced up at the sound of Molly's voice coming from the speakers up at Walter's computer. He glanced back at Sherlock, staring at him.

_He and Molly are having a conversation __**inside**__ his head right now, _John thought, shaking his head at that.

John turned and walked up towards where Walter and Astrid sat at the computers, grabbing his robe on the way. As he set the towel aside and donned the dressing gown, he stepped up towards them. "How does it look, Dr. Bishop?"

"Oh, just fine," Walter replied, taking a bite from what looked like a bacon and peanut butter sandwich. "Mr. Holmes does not yet show signs of recovery, but his brainwaves are showing more activity."

Olivia walked over to them. "Scotland Yard has evacuated Heathrow Airport, and the bomb has been found. They're working on it now."

"_No," _said Molly from the speakers.

John looked down at the monitor, which showed Molly floating in the tank, eyes closed.

"_Later," _Molly whispered. _"Tell me when you get out."_

Peter joined them on the raised floor. "And Jacobs?"

John looked up at Greg as he walked over.

"He has been arrested, and they're questioning him now about his accomplices," Greg told them. "Shouldn't be long now before it's over."

John nodded with a sigh. "Good. That's good."

"She's…smiling," said Peter suddenly.

John glanced at him before looking at the screen. Molly was indeed smiling, and her smile was only growing stronger. John gave a little smile himself.

Peter glanced suspiciously over at John. "Why's she smiling?"

John glanced at him, feigning innocence. "Not a clue."

Peter smiled back at him in understanding.

* * *

Sherlock watched as John disappeared in front of his eyes. "Well, there's something you don't see every day."

Molly laughed lightly. "No."

Sherlock looked down at her, staring at her in amazement. This woman, who had held him close to her heart through all his insults and demands. This woman, who had stuck by him through thick and thin. This woman, whom he had placed all his trust in. This woman, who had never abandoned him when he needed her, no matter what for. And now, it seemed he had inadvertently let her in on his deeply hidden attraction for her.

Although, it wasn't until just now, when Molly had triggered all the happy memories he had of her—everything about Molly that he held dear—that he had even begun to realize that just maybe that attraction was something deeper. But how could he know for sure? As he was fond of remarking, this wasn't his area.

_That's easy, _he thought. _You've got the perfect example in John. His smile always brightens whenever he's near Mary._

Sherlock thought back to every time he entered St. Bart's lab, every time Molly stepped into the morgue, every time she visited the flat with Sherlock's requested body parts. It was always the highlight of his day, and he was sure an actual, genuine smile graced his face.

_John had been prepared to selflessly give everything he had for Mary when Magnussen had threatened her._

If it had been Molly that Magnussen had threatened, that _Moriarty_ had threatened, Sherlock would not hesitate to give his life for her. She was so much more important than him.

_Even after discovering Mary's past, John still accepted her as his._

Could Sherlock love Molly's imperfections just the same?

_Absurd. Molly has no imperfections._

Which may have been the exact answer he needed.

_John once told me that the one you love is the first person you think about when you wake and the last person you think about before you sleep._

More and more lately, Sherlock found himself with images and thoughts of Molly as he drank his morning tea and when he played his evening violin. And it seemed that it was less and less John's voice in the back of his head to guide him and more and more Molly's.

_Well, well, well…_ Sherlock thought. _It seems it __**is**__ more than simple attraction._

Sherlock smiled as he stepped towards her. "Molly—"

Molly shook her head. "No. Later. Tell me when you get out."

Sherlock firmly shook his head, taking hold of her hands. "No. Here, where I can't hide behind my mask of cold indifference, where you can see the real me."

Molly's mouth worked in silence as she stared at him.

"Molly…" Sherlock began, "I may have already made this clear by my earlier actions, but I feel that it needs to be said. You may have ended up awakening more than just my mind in this quest."

Molly's eyes widened a little as a smile began to form.

Sherlock raised his hand to her face. "You have evidently awakened my heart as well."

Molly's smile grew as she reached up to place her hand over his.

"I have trusted you with my reputation, my life and my mind," Sherlock continued. "If it is not too much to ask, would you consider taking on my heart as well?"

Molly let out a happy laugh, a tear falling down her face. Her grip on Sherlock's hand tightened slightly as if to reassure herself that this was real. "Always."

Sherlock pulled Molly up towards him, kissing her passionately. Molly wrapped her arms around him, losing herself in it. As Sherlock enveloped her in his arms, Molly was brought back to reality. Placing her hand on the side of his face, she pulled away from him. Sherlock tried to follow her, but she placed her other hand on his chest.

"No, wait, wait," Molly told him. "Not here."

Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"Out there," Molly told him. "I want the real you."

Sherlock gave her a smile. "But this is the real me."

Molly smiled as she rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

Sherlock released her slightly. "How?"

Molly held her hand out to him. "Take my hand."

Sherlock smiled and reached for her hand, clasping it tightly. "Lead the way."

Molly wrapped his hand in both of hers and then closed her eyes and began to pull them out.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Molly jolted back to the dark tank, her arms flinging out instinctively at her sides slightly. It took a moment to get her bearings, but once she did, she only had one thought on her mind.

"Sherlock…" Molly muttered as she pulled herself up onto her knees.

There was a scraping and creaking as someone on the other side of the doors began to open them. Light flooded in as they did so, and Molly put a hand up to shield her eyes.

"Molly, are you—"

"Is he okay?" Molly immediately demanded, reaching forward to pull herself up through the mouth of the open tank doors.

A hand clasped onto her arm, helping her climb out of the tank. Molly's eyes instantly landed on the stretcher in front of her tank and the detective asleep on top of it. As someone placed a dressing gown over her shoulders, she stumbled forward and took Sherlock's hand in hers.

"Sherlock?" she asked, looking closely at his face.

"Dr. Bishop says he's getting better," said John as he walked up to the stretcher opposite Molly, wearing his own dressing gown.

Molly glanced over the EEG readings really quick before looking back to him. There didn't appear to be any change from when she had last seen him.

"Yes, look," said Walter as he stepped up to the stretcher next to Molly. He was gazing at the EEG's screen intently. "He seems to be recovering."

"So, that means he'll start to wake up?" asked John.

A groan suddenly sounded from the stretcher, and Molly's gaze shot back down to him. Sherlock's face had scrunched up slightly as his head moved to the side a little. His mouth had opened marginally, and he appeared to be trying to speak. A ghost of a breath escaped his lips, and Molly had to lean in to hear what he was saying.

"M…" Sherlock mumbled in little more than a whisper, "Moll…Molly…"

Molly smiled as she pulled away enough to look into his face, reaching her other hand forward to ease the tension from his face as the hand holding his tightened in reassurance. Sherlock was still whispering her name sporadically, although the anxiety had eased from his face somewhat.

John was trying and failing to hide his smile as he glanced back and forth between the two.

Molly gave a self-conscious smile, her face blushing. "Oh, shut up."

John chuckled as he placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it briefly before releasing it and heading back up towards the offices to change.

Molly turned her attention back to Sherlock, who had fallen still and silent once again, the coma taking over for the time being. But at least he was starting to wake up now. It would take a few more brief spells of waking before he started the process of becoming fully conscious and aware.

* * *

John glanced over at Molly as he walked towards the lowered section of the lab. She was still sitting next to Sherlock's stretcher, having only left once to change back into her regular clothes.

John approached Molly, holding a cup of tea out to her. "Anything?"

Molly shook her head, taking hold of the cup with the hand not holding Sherlock's. "Not yet. But it's only been two hours, so…"

John nodded. "So…"

Molly glanced up at him. "What?"

"So, you two?" asked John.

Molly smiled at him, looking back at Sherlock. "Apparently. I mean, I had started to see something there while we were sifting through his memories, but I never thought he actually…"

John smiled as he sat down opposite her by the stretcher. "Well, that's the thing about Sherlock: he always surprises you."

Molly nodded, taking a sip of her tea before looking up at him. "Speaking of, I have a few questions."

John sighed, nodding in resignation. "I thought you might."

Molly hesitated a moment. "The fight…between you and Mary…"

John nodded once again. "Yeah…"

"What happened?" she asked him.

John gave another sigh, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "Sherlock and I had gone to Magnusson's office to steal some documents he had on our client. We found Janine unconscious, and Sherlock went to investigate Magnusson's penthouse upstairs." He took a deep breath, stealing himself for what he was about to say. "Sherlock found someone with a gun pointed at Magnusson." He looked up into Molly's eyes. "It was Mary."

Molly's eyes widened as her jaw dropped. "Mary? Why?"

John hesitated. "Mary's past life…was as an assassin. She had given all that up and took on a new identity to get away from it. Magnusson was threatening to expose her."

"_Mary_…shot Sherlock?" asked Molly.

John nodded. "Sherlock says she actually saved his life, and I believe him."

"Saved his life?" said Molly. "How?"

"Something about not aiming for a kill shot and calling the ambulance; I don't know," said John, shaking his head. "But if Sherlock trusts her, he must have good reasons to. He doesn't really trust anyone very easily."

Molly looked down at Sherlock, nodding as she smiled. "No, he really doesn't. You're probably the first person he actually did trust."

John frowned. "What about Greg?"

"Oh, he never really trusted Greg in the beginning; not like he does now," Molly told him as she looked up at him. "You kinda brought that out in him." She hesitated, looking back down at Sherlock. "I guess that's what he had been missing all those years: a friend." After a moment, she gave a small giggle.

John smiled at her laughter. "What?"

"Oh, that memory at the airfield," Molly told him. "Him trying to get you to name his daughter after him."

John laughed at that. "Yeah…I can't believe he actually succeeded."

Molly frowned, looking over at him. "He did?"

John nodded. "Our first case, the dead woman had tried to scratch her daughter's name into the floor to give us her phone's password. It was Rachel."

Molly smiled. "Really? That's where you got the name Rachel?"

John shrugged. "Well, it was kind of…perfect. She was definitely a Rachel."

Molly's smile widened. "That's sweet, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know."

Sherlock suddenly shifted on the stretcher, turning his head on the pillow towards John. The two of them looked down at him, waiting with bated breath. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open slightly, his eyes rolling back and forth. He frowned as his empty hand clenched at his side. His feet shifted under the thin blanket before stilling themselves. Sherlock's head twitched a little more into the pillow before his eyes closed and his body became motionless yet again.

Molly let out a sigh as she reached forward and brushed his dark curls away from his face. "Well…at least he's moving."

John nodded as he got to his feet. "Greg and I were going to make a run for food. You want anything?"

"Sure," said Molly. "Something simple."

John nodded, recognizing that Molly was going to be eating right where she was.

* * *

Molly jumped a little as she snapped out of her dream. She glanced down at the pillow she had been resting her head on to discover that it wasn't a pillow at all. She had been resting her head on Sherlock's torso.

Molly blushed furiously. _Thank God he's asleep._

"So, he can take one look at a crime scene and solve the whole case?" asked Peter.

Molly glanced up to see everyone sitting up on the raised section of the lab, chatting.

"Oh, yeah," nodded Greg. "I've seen him glance over pictures from a case that were sitting on my desk and tell me who did it in less than ten seconds."

"And if a case isn't interesting enough, he'll send me out with a laptop to Skype at the crime scene," John told them.

"Seriously?" asked Astrid. "I can't imagine Walter doing that. He usually wants to sniff and touch everything."

"Yeah, so does Sherlock," John laughed. "There was one time when Sherlock told me to go through a full skip to find the murder weapon, a medical waste skip."

"Oh, my gosh!" exclaimed Astrid with a laugh. "At least Walter has us wear protective gear."

"Sherlock refuses to wear any kind of gear to a crime scene," Greg told them, giving John a smirk. "Doesn't want to ruin his hair."

"Are you kidding?" laughed John. "He purposely ruffles up his hair any chance he gets, probably to impress you know who. No, my bet is on his suit. One little crease in his wardrobe, and he's off to change."

Greg laughed out loud as the others joined in.

Molly chuckled with a smile as she straightened in her seat. "He does that to _impress_ me?"

John looked over at her, giving her a contrite grimace. "Sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"No, it's okay," Molly told him, standing and starting to head around the foot of the stretcher towards them. "It's just…" she shrugged, "he never needed to impress me with his looks. That's not really what attracted me in the first place."

John gave her a doubtful look.

"Well, okay, yeah, that's what first caught my eye," said Molly, a blush appearing on her face. "I mean, he is…kind of…you know…"

They all nodded to show they knew what she meant.

"But that's not why I…" Molly trailed off once again as she came to a stop on the other side of the stretcher. "Despite how harsh and vulgar he can be to some people, he's got one of the biggest hearts I've ever seen. He doesn't show it often, but…there's a good man buried underneath all that."

Greg nodded at her. "Yes, there is."

_Beep-beep-beep-beep—_

Molly spun around in alarm as the heart monitor's rate began accelerating.

Sherlock's face was screwed up in distress, and his hand was stretched out at his side as though reaching for something.

"Is he okay?" asked John as hurried footsteps approached behind Molly.

Molly reached forward and laced her hand into Sherlock's hand, which immediately tightened around it. After a moment, the heart monitor steadied and slowed back to normal, Sherlock's face easing back into its peaceful stillness. Sherlock's hand clasped firmly onto hers before loosening slowly as he slipped back into sleep.

Molly smiled as she settled onto the chair next to the stretcher. _Looks like I'm bringing out the sensitive side of Sherlock Holmes._

"Well, I do believe you've done the impossible, Molly," said John as he stepped up next to her.

Molly frowned as she looked over at him.

"You got Sherlock in touch with his emotions," John told her.

Molly smiled as she looked back at the detective, waiting for him to wake up.

* * *

Darkness. The only thing he could see was darkness.

He had tried and tried, but could not find his way out of it. The only thing that was penetrating the suffocating cloud around him was one thing, one voice.

"_Not yet. But it's only been two hours, so…"_

Molly. Molly Hooper.

He hated to sound so cliché, but it was literally like the voice of an angel. She had reached in and managed to pull him out, in so many ways.

"_I guess that's what he had been missing all those years: a friend."_

Her voice seemed to come and go, coupled with smells and touches. Each time her voice made it through the darkness, his senses grew more and more sharp. He could tell that he was lying on some kind of surface; maybe a bed or a couch. And it smelled of disinfectant. Was he in the hospital?

"_He does that to _impress_ me?"_

No, it couldn't be the hospital. There were other smells and sounds that wouldn't be present in a hospital. He was somewhere else. Somewhere with a heart monitor…

He moved to open his eyes, but it felt like there were lead weights on them, keeping them firmly closed. The darkness engulfing him was muffling the sounds as well, making it sound as though he were lying at the bottom of a pool. And didn't that thought bring back bad memories.

Finally, he was able to wrench his eyes open, and what he saw was an old, cob-webbed ceiling. Shifting around a bit, he looked down at himself to find that he was lying on a stretcher. An IV was attached to the back of his left hand, and he followed the line up to the bag of saline hanging next to his makeshift bed.

Hearing a steady beeping coming from somewhere above his head, he turned it on the pillow to see a heart monitor standing at the head of the stretcher next to an EEG.

_EEG?_

He reached up and felt around on his head, discovering a few leads attached to it.

"_MOO!"_

_What the…_

With a frown, he turned his head in the other direction, the rest of his surroundings coming into view. He appeared to be in a lab of some kind with a—

_A cow?_

He frowned at the cow stabled in the corner of the lab for a moment before turning his head to the front again. He slowly pulled himself up, almost groaning at the ache in his muscles. He pushed aside the hospital-issued blanket and swung his legs over the side of the stretcher, grateful that the hospital he had been in before they had brought him here had dressed him in pants and a t-shirt instead of a hospital gown.

He reached down to the IV on his hand, pulling the tape off and carefully tugging the line out. He then grabbed hold of the EEG leads and peeled them off of his head. Next were the heart monitor sensors. As the heart monitor began letting out its flatline alarm, he rubbed at his forehead as a dull headache started up.

* * *

"And then Walter dosed himself with the pesticide," Olivia told them.

"He what?" asked Greg.

"He figured that he would act as bait so the creature would eat him and then die," said Peter.

"My God," breathed John. "What happened?"

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep…_

John jolted in his seat at the heart monitor's alarm, jumping to his feet and rushing towards the tanks. When he got close enough, he saw that the heart monitor flatlining, the EEG monitor flashing and the IV leaking onto the sheets behind Sherlock. John stared in shock at his friend, who was sitting on the side of the stretcher, a hand to his head. John looked over at Greg, who was standing next to him, and shared a smile with him before they headed towards him.

"Sherlock?" said John.

Sherlock turned his head to look at them, his eyes narrowed. "I take it we had to bring me to Dr. Bishop instead of Dr. Bishop to me."

John frowned at him. "You remember all of that?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was stupid. "Of course I remember it, John."

"Wow, you were right," said Peter. "He doesn't miss anything."

Sherlock turned at the new voice to look at Peter. He turned his deductive gaze on him for a moment. "You're not Walter Bishop, although you're not far off. You have the same nose and ears. Could be brothers, but based on age difference, more likely father and son. You're Peter Bishop."

Peter's brows rose in surprise. "Not bad." He smiled as he gestured over to his right, where Walter stood. "This is Walter."

Sherlock's gaze shifted over to the scientist, nodding. "Pleasure." His eyes narrowed slightly as he pointed over at Gene. "Is that a cow?"

Olivia smiled. "Yeah. Cows differ from humans—"

"—by only a couple lines of DNA, of course," said Sherlock under his breath. "Perfect for experimenting." He turned his head towards John.

"Don't even think about it," John told him sternly.

"John—" began Sherlock.

"How would we even get a cow up the stairs into our flat?" John replied. "Where would it even fit?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before nodding. "I suppose you're right."

John smiled over at Greg. "Never thought I'd hear that."

Sherlock sneered at him before looking around at everyone there, frowning in confusion. "Where's Molly?"

John turned to see Greg's smile before he looked back at Sherlock. "She'll be back soon. We finally managed to convince her to go get a shower and a nap. She hasn't left your side all day or night."

"And the bomb?" asked Sherlock.

"They deactivated it yesterday and caught Jacobs last night," Greg told him. "We should be able to get the other guy soon."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent."

"Sherlock?"

Everyone turned to see Molly standing on the raised platform of the lab, staring at Sherlock in shock. Sherlock was staring right back at her as he slowly slid off the stretcher and put his feet on the floor. Molly began hurrying down the steps towards him as he pushed away from the stretcher. John moved out of the way, as the two of them only had eyes for each other.

Sherlock stepped towards Molly as she met him halfway, Sherlock raising his hands to either side of Molly's face. Sherlock dipped his head down and captured her lips in a kiss. John glanced over at Greg, who shared a smile with him. Sherlock spent a good long moment kissing Molly, who had wrapped her arms around Sherlock's back.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, he leaned his forehead against Molly's, giving her a smile. "You were right. That was better."

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock paused and turned his head to look at him, a mild look of annoyance on his face. "Yes?"

John smirked at him. "I'm happy for the two of you, but you just woke up from a coma, Sherlock. You can't overexert yourself."

Sherlock scoffed. "I am fine, John." He then made the mistake of shifting his weight, causing his legs to give out.

"Sherlock!" said Molly, using her grip around him to steady him as John hurried forward to help.

Sherlock took several deep breaths as they helped him over to a chair, easing him down onto it. "Perhaps you were right, John."

"Twice in one day," said John as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist. "It's a day for miracles." He raised his other hand up to look at his watch, counting Sherlock's pulse.

"Yes, it is," muttered Sherlock, his eyes on Molly as he smiled at her.

"Look what you've done now, Molly," muttered John, checking Sherlock's blood pressure. "He's a romantic."

Sherlock frowned at John in insult. "Am not."

"Yeah, you are," said John, raising his hand to Sherlock's face to check his pupils.


	12. Author's Update

I am so sorry, everyone! I am still adjusting to a new town and a new house and a new job. I have started the final chapter, but I'm having trouble finding time to write. I'll get to it, I swear! 'Cause I can't start my next story until I finished this one.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Twelve

"Why don't you try phosphorous pentasulfide?" suggested Sherlock. "That'll take care of the hemolytic dissociation."

Walter's eyes widened as his voice rose in excitement. "Of course! Why didn't _I_ think of that?" He dashed off towards the fridge to grab the necessary ingredient.

John darted out of Walter's way as he hurried past, watching him hurry back to the lab table where Sherlock sat. He shook his head and continued towards another table, where everyone else sat. "Are the kids behaving?" He gave a head tilt towards the two experimenting geniuses.

Molly smiled. "Oh, they're having a blast."

"I haven't seen Walter this excited since the diner on Madison brought back their root beer floats," said Peter, watching his father contentedly.

"Really?" asked Greg. "Fond of food, is he?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Astrid told him with a smile.

An explosion suddenly rent the air, causing all of them to jump and John to then close his eyes and wince. A plume of smoke had enveloped the other side of the lab, obscuring the figures of Sherlock and Walter. Before the others could break out of their shock to rush over and determine whether the two had just killed themselves, John gave a tired sigh.

"You okay?" John asked with what sounded like a bored, annoyed tone, his eyes still closed.

Peter, Olivia and Astrid all looked at John in disbelief and probably shock at his disinterest before a strained, choked voice emerged from the smoke.

"Yeah…" Sherlock coughed, "we're fine…"

John nodded. "Okay." He opened his eyes to find the three Americans all staring at him.

"Well, you took that in stride," said Peter, sounding equal parts impressed and disturbed.

"Well, I'm used to it," John brushed off.

"Used to it?" asked Olivia.

John leaned forward to explain. "When we were flatmates, there was once a week-long dry spell—case-wise—and Sherlock dove into his experiments to stave off the boredom. At one point, there was an explosion going off in the kitchen _at least_ once an hour."

"Wow, and I thought living with Walter was bad," Peter muttered.

"Yeah, that's the frailty of genius: it doesn't come with an off switch," said John.

Peter laughed at that. "Ain't that the truth."

Walter stumbled out of the smoke as it began to spread, approaching the table where they sat and giving them all a wide-eyed look. "What a blunder. I mistakenly used the magnesium gluconate container to store the hydrogen peroxide—" he looked over at Peter, smiling merrily, "which, of course, does not react well to phosphorous pentasulfide—"

"What?" exclaimed Molly, jumping up from the table and backing away from the spreading cloud of noxious fumes. "Sherlock! Stop breathing and get out!"

Following Molly's example, John ushered everyone away from the spreading smoke.

"What is it?" asked Greg, hurrying backwards with the rest of them.

"Phosphorous pentasulfide and hydrogen peroxide should never be mixed," Molly quickly told them. "They react explosively, and the fumes are toxic when breathed or if they come into contact with skin. Sherlock!"

"Already ahead of you!" Sherlock called back, giving a few coughs at the end of his declaration among the sound of water splashing against the lab floor. "And if you are easily offended by nudity, I would leave now before the smoke clears!"

"Oh, for—" grumbled John as he headed out of the lab with everyone else.

Walter hit a big red button on the wall as they left, and ventilation fans in the ceiling of the lab immediately turned on and began cycling the poisonous fumes elsewhere.

"Sherlock—" Molly began, caught between staying to make sure he was okay and giving him some privacy in the emergency shower.

"Molly, go," Sherlock told her. "I know that we're dating now, but I would prefer to save this for an intimate occasion."

Molly blushed furiously at the statement.

"Molly, please," Sherlock pleaded. "I don't want you to be exposed anymore than you already have been."

Molly nodded, realizing it was for the best. After all, Sherlock was a graduate chemist. He knew very well how to deal with a chemical exposure. She would leave him with his dignity (although how a man who admittedly walked naked around his flat, even while John was still living there, could be worried about dignity was a complete mystery).

"All right," Molly told him, turning and hurrying out of the lab. She found the others in the hallway outside. "How long does it take to clear the lab out?"

"About twenty minutes," Astrid answered.

"Not to worry, dear," Walter told Molly. "Mr. Holmes only had a minor splash on his shirt. He would have been fine, but we thought it best to be safe."

Molly nodded, feeling much better about it. "What about you?"

"Oh, I only inhaled a little bit," Walter told her. "I'll be fine."

"That's for me to decide," said John, stepping forward and ushering Walter to the side to look him over.

* * *

Molly hurried back into the lab as soon as Walter declared it safe again. She rounded the corner, searching the lab but not finding anything except a slightly dripping emergency shower in the corner. A door opened to her left, and she turned to see Sherlock emerging from one of the back offices, wrapped in one of their dressing gowns.

"Sherlock…" said Molly, rushing forward towards him.

Sherlock enveloped her in his arms, holding her tight. "I'm okay. Didn't even get any on me." His voice had strained near the end, and a cough emitted from his throat. "Apart from the irritated throat, I should be fine by tomorrow."

"I suppose I should get used to it," muttered Molly.

"I'm sorry?" asked Sherlock, frowning into her hair.

"The experiments," said Molly. "Both good and…bad."

"Well, technically, this one wasn't my fault," Sherlock told her.

Molly laughed as she eased back from his chest and looked up at him, giving him a kiss.

"Yeah, he's decent," said John from behind her, stepping into the lab in front of the others. "For once."

Sherlock looked up at John with an affronted expression. "I can be decent."

Molly turned in Sherlock's arms to look at John.

"Name once," John threw back at him with a smirk.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"And the best man's speech does not count," John interrupted. "Mary had to threaten you into behaving."

Sherlock stared at him, at a loss for an answer.

"New Years' party 2014," Molly told John.

John looked over at her in surprise as Sherlock paused for a moment and then smiled smugly at John. John rolled his eyes at the two of them before stalking off to join the others in the main lab.

Sherlock looked down at Molly, giving her a smile. "You are the perfect woman." He pulled her into a kiss.

Molly hummed into the kiss and then pulled away. "I don't know about that, but thanks for saying so."

"You know me, Molly," said Sherlock, giving her another kiss. "Do I ever say things I don't mean?"

"True," said Molly, smiling as he kissed her again.

"Oi!" called Greg. "Do you two mind? We need to work out the rest of this case before heading to the airport."

Molly giggled as Sherlock almost silently growled his displeasure at being interrupted, and they headed over to join everyone else.

"Of all the things we've had to pull him away from for a case…" John muttered to Greg.

"Honestly, _Greg_, it's obvious where you will find the other conspirators," Sherlock told them as he reached them.

"It is?" asked Greg.

"The Royal Garden Hotel and The Grange Tower Bridge Hotel," Sherlock told them.

"And how exactly did you figure that one out?" asked John.

Sherlock frowned at them like they were idiots. "The tapes."

The others all stared at him with blank faces.

Sherlock's frown deepened into a confused one. "Didn't you get my note?"

"What note?" asked Greg.

Sherlock looked at John. "You said you got my note."

"Yeah, all it said was 'Bomb set for Friday,'" John told him.

"What?" asked Sherlock. "I wrote _everything_ on there."

"Sherlock, you suffered a head injury and fell into a coma," said John. "I'm pretty sure you passed out before you could finish."

"Oh," said Sherlock, giving a slight shrug.

Greg shook his head before pulling out his mobile to call his office.

* * *

"So, back to England, then," said Molly as she and Sherlock settled into their seats on the private plane.

"Mm, yes," said Sherlock, perusing his phone for a moment before stowing it inside his coat.

"Got any new cases yet?" asked Molly.

Sherlock turned his upper body towards her a little more. "Not yet. But it shouldn't be long. I've been _wildly_ popular lately."

"I've noticed," Molly told him. "I just hope you're not **too **popular. We don't need another attempt on your life."

"Well, now I have you," Sherlock told her. "Maybe you can save my life a fourth time."

Molly frowned in confusion, counting the number of times she had been there to help him. "Fourth? Don't you mean third?"

Sherlock frowned at her. "You didn't see that memory?"

Molly shook her head at him.

Sherlock brightened slightly in realization. "You must have arrived after I'd viewed it already. The first time you saved my life was when you helped fake my death. The third was when you traipsed into my mind to pull me out of a coma. The second…was when I was shot."

Molly's frown deepened, but it now showed a hint of concern for him. "But I didn't save your life that night, Sherlock. I wasn't even there."

Sherlock's brows rose. "Oh, but you were." At her confused look, he explained. "When I was shot, I delved into my mind palace, looking for something or someone to help me survive. Do you know the first person I saw?"

Molly shook her head once again.

"You," said Sherlock. "You were right there with me the whole time, reminding me of ways to prolong my death until we had arrived at the hospital. You saved me."

Molly had tears in her eyes by the time he had finished.

"It's probably also very telling that, in the moment I believed I was going to die…you were the first person I thought of," Sherlock told her, staring intensely into her eyes. "I have heard mentioned several times that what you see before you die are the things you will miss most." He then looked down and reached for her hand, clasping onto it. "I know that there isn't much of a future or a life that I could offer you, but…"

Molly's jaw dropped slightly in surprise. _He's not…is he?_

As much as Molly loved Sherlock and the thought of spending the rest of her life with him, she knew that they were not ready for such a big step; **Sherlock** was not ready for such a big step.

Sherlock looked up at her. "Molly Hooper, would you be my girlfriend?"

Molly let out a relieved breath, laughing a little. "I thought we were already…you know, boyfriend, girlfriend."

Sherlock nodded once. "Technically, yes, but, uh…I…"

Molly smiled at him. "Wanted to make it official?"

Sherlock smiled and gazed at her in admiration. "How is it that you know me so well, Molly?"

Molly smiled as she leaned towards him. "Years of practice." She placed a kiss on his lips.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around her as he continued kissing her. Their touching (no pun intended) snog was interrupted when someone thumped their hand on the headrest of Molly's seat.

"So…" said John.

Sherlock and Molly pulled back, Sherlock with a bracing grit of his teeth, to watch John sitting in the seats across from them.

"The case is solved, then," continued John.

"Yes, John," said Sherlock. "Is that all you interrupted us for? We already knew that."

Molly gave Sherlock a light shove in the ribs with her elbow. "Behave."

Sherlock looked down at her before smiling slightly and looking back at John. "Do go on."

John looked over at Molly. "Wow, you're even better at that than me."

"Molly had to be better than you at **something**," Sherlock told him.

"Just one thing, huh?" said Molly, smiling up at him.

"Well…" Sherlock smiled down at her, "maybe more than one." He leaned his head down and kissed her.

"So, when are you two going to be out of this honeymoon phase?" asked John.

Sherlock looked at him. "Sorry, John. Have to make up for lost time." He took a deep breath. "So…what are you titling this one?"

"Mm…I was thinking 'The Detective, the Bomb and the Coma,'" John told them.

Sherlock winced at that. "Oh, dull."

"I like it," said Molly, shrugging.

Sherlock looked at her, struggling with himself for a moment before closing his eyes in surrender and then looking at John with a vague shrug. "You've had worse."

John smiled, looking between the two of them. "I think I like this new Sherlock. He's thoughtful."

"Might as well get used to it," Sherlock muttered. He looked down at Molly, smiling at her. "I have a feeling he'll be around for a while."

John looked at Molly. "Promise me you will never break up with him."

Molly was still smiling at Sherlock. "Don't plan to." She leaned forward as Sherlock did as well.

John stared at the kissing couple for a moment, smiling, before lightly slapping the armrests of his seat. He pulled himself to his feet and headed towards the back of the cabin where Greg sat.

"The lovebirds still at it?" asked Greg with a smirk.

John smiled as he sat across from the inspector. "Yeah. Never seen him like this."

"Well, can you blame him?" said Greg. "The guy has pushed away anything close to emotions for practically his entire life."

"Guess he likes sentiment better than he thought he would," said John, chuckling a little.

"Yeah, who knew," laughed Greg.

John glanced back at where Sherlock and Molly were wrapped in each other's arms, speaking quietly and occasionally kissing. "Glad he finally got it."

"Got what?" asked Greg.

John looked back at him. "I've been waiting for something to happen between those two for four years."

Greg's brows rose. "Four years? You knew that long ago?"

"Of course," John told him. He gave the inspector a smirk. "It was obvious."

Greg smiled at the familiar statement. "Obvious, huh?"

John shrugged. "Why else would he have kept shooting down all of Molly's boyfriends?"

Greg stared at him for a moment, thinking back, before smiling at John and looking back at Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled away from Molly and leaned back in his seat. Molly turned to rest her back against his chest, lacing her fingers through those of the arm he still had wrapped around her. Sherlock planted a kiss to the top of her head, resting his cheek against it.

Soon, Molly was dosing off, her head resting perfectly against his collarbone. Sherlock wrapped his arm tighter around her, holding her as close as he could. He was so glad to finally have her with him. He never thought he would enjoy domesticity this much; after all, look what Mary had done to John.

But with Molly…Molly understood him. She knew how to pacify him, how to put up with him, when he needed a case to occupy his mind, when he needed a moment (or a few hours) to sort things out in his mind palace. She was the perfect complement to him; the light to his dark, the yin to his yang, the heart to his mind.

The only reason he had put it off all these years was because he was afraid he would only end up hurting her.

Sherlock glanced down at Molly, placing yet another kiss to her forehead, vowing that he would never _ever_ let that happen.

* * *

**THE END**


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